


Not words, not music or rhyme I want, only the hum of your valvèd voice

by emmadelosnardos



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Epistolary, F/M, Leaves of Grass, Romance, Slow Burn, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after the President’s visit, Nurse Phinney boards a northbound train and leaves four letters behind at Mansion House Hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four letters and one response

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/gifts).



> Pardon me any anachronisms or a poor chronology of the Civil War; corrections much appreciated, always.
> 
> With the exception of "The Learn'd Astronomer," all Whitman quotes come from the 1860 edition of "Leaves of Grass," found here:
> 
> http://www.whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1860/whole.html

* * *

February 10, 1863

Chief Doctor Summers:

Sir, I respectfully submit my resignation from Mansion House Hospital, effective immediately. You may have already heard as much from Superintendent Dix; she has approved my resignation.

Word has reached me that my sister has died of a malignant fever in Boston. She leaves behind her two young children, orphans all but in name, as their father is a prisoner of war in Richmond and our brother is fighting with the Third Massachusetts Battalion. We three were orphaned at a tender age, and have no other relations but an elderly aunt and uncle near Concord, both infirm and ill-equipped to care for two small boys. I must go to Boston to be the mother that these two boys now lack; unfortunately their case is not unique in this cruel war.

I wish to thank you for your trust and esteem in me in this brief time that I served at Mansion House. It has been an honor to serve the Cause, and I only regret that I had such little time here.

Perhaps you might consider taking on Emma Green, a daughter of the family that owned the hotel, as a special ‘Confederate Nurse.’ She is brave, tender-hearted, and committed to serving her boys, as we are to ours. She may be amenable to working at the hospital, if a certain Loyalty Oath were overlooked. You may not know that Samuel Diggs, a free Negro working as a houseboy, is in fact a skilled nurse, having worked many years for a Doctor Berenson in Philadelphia. You will recall that the Hebrews, being an oppressed people, have not the compunctions of Gentiles towards the Negroes, and it is my understanding that this doctor taught Samuel as if he were an apprentice. Surely there could be a use for his skilled hands on the ward.

Should you need to get word to me, I may be reached in Beacon Hill, Boston.

Respectfully,

Mary Phinney  
Baroness von Olnhausen

* * *

February 10, 1863

Mister Diggs:

I regret to inform you that I must leave Mansion House very soon. My sister has died and I must go to Boston to care for her two sons. As you have a loving heart, you will understand what the world can be like to children without their Mother.

If I you forgive me the liberty, I will write to Doctor Foster and strongly urge him to seek for you the position of Apprentice at Mansion House. I see no reason why Doctor Summers would disapprove of such an appointment, for he is an Abolitionist and a pragmatist, and after Squivers’ departure there are no medical cadets. As I have said, you are cleverer than most the doctors here, and twice as skilled.

I will think often of you and Aurelia and Gabriel; please read them my letter and let them know that I can be reached at Beacon Hill, Boston, near the ‘woman with the flower’. Aurelia will know what this means.

Most Sincerely,

Mary Phinney

* * *

February 10, 1863

Miss Emma Green:

With this letter I hope to convince you to take on a position at Mansion House Hospital. I know you are loyal to the Rebellion and will likely balk at the suggestion of joining the Federal Army, but please consider your position: without you, who here will care for the Confederate boys? I have written to Doctor Summers and asked him to consider you as a special ‘Confederate Nurse,’ in the case that he were willing to let slide the Loyalty Oath. He will speak to you, I am certain.

As for myself, I must leave in the morning for Boston, as my sister has passed away and leaves two young boys without either parent. You, who are brave and tender-hearted, will understand where a woman’s first Duty lies.

It may seem strange to you, who first knew this place as your family’s Hotel, to now see its walls stained with blood, but I know that there is Mercy here, and that God is with all who work within.

I will miss it here, and will think often of you and the others who care for our Men. Without breaking his confidence, may I ask you to care also for Doctor Foster, who fights his own war, and needs an ally in this mad place? He and the chaplain will be your friends, when I am no longer here.

You may write me in Boston, at Beacon Hill, should you have a spare moment for the enemy.

In peace,

Mary Phinney

* * *

February 10, 1863

Doctor Foster:

~~I am sor~~ I write to tell you that my sister in Boston has died and her two sons have no one left to care for them save myself, as my brother is away with his battalion. They are very young, just five years and seven years apiece, and their father is a prisoner in Richmond. I must go to be with my nephews, and as such I am resigning my post at Mansion House.

~~You must~~

I am leaving tomorrow on the steamer to Washington City, and then to whatever ship or train will carry me North. So many are traveling that way now, so many full of hope for their Freedom, and I trust that I will make a safe journey back.

Please think of Samuel Diggs and Emma Green after I have gone. You will need assistance, and both of them are able practitioners. You might do more than talk to Samuel of apprenticeships and stir up his dreams – why not make that a reality now, at Mansion House? And Emma has the makings of a fine nurse, if she can learn to keep steady at the sight of blood. You could do worse than take them on. Despite yourself, you have a fondness for taking on lost causes, do you not? Otherwise I cannot account for our strange kinship.

You are a fine physician, Doctor Foster. Hale and Hasting will try to undermine you, they will try to find your weakness; they will bow to you and pretend you were never enemies. Do not believe them. And do not believe your mother, nor your brother; they do not see you for who you are and for what you have done for them, they see you for someone they wish you were, and thus they will always be disappointed in you. Do not be disappointed in yourself for the same reason. You must be strong now, Jedediah, stronger than they are if you are to last this war and make your life anew in California. You must be your own anchor, this you know already and do not need me to tell you. But though I am no longer at Mansion House, please know that you will always have a friend, should you need one, in Boston.

In Friendship,

Mary Phinney

* * *

Miss Mary Phinney,  
Baroness von Olnhausen  
Beacon Hill  
Boston, Massachusetts

10 Feb Dec ‘63

~~Mar~~  Nurse Phinney:

Would it surprise you to hear that I looked for you at the docks this morning, but the steamer had already left? You cannot know my ~~des~~  disappointment, to receive your note without ~~having time~~ ~~thanking you~~ \--But no, what is there to say? You have gone and, though you say I have a friend in Boston, it is a friend in Alexandria that I need (not in California, never there). You have left me most bereft, Nurse Phinney, and though I am mindful of the high regard you hold of Samuel and Miss Green, they cannot replace you at Mansion House _~~or~~_. You will view me as impertinent, but even a spaniel must nip at his chain from time to time. Yours was a chain I did not mind wearing.

Is it the morphine – or, rather, its absence – that makes me desperate, or is it that an other’s absence makes me desperate for morphine? Either way, I shall not have the poppy again and it is now clear that I will be alone in this not-having, in this cruel abstinence. I have not dosed myself in over three months, not since I cut off Ezra’s leg and my mother disowned me. You heard that conversation, I think, and judged rightly its effect on me, or you would not have known to look for me afterwards. Is it weak, do you think, to take so much to heart the words of an old, silly woman? ~~(Eliza thought it unseemly~~ I will strive, as you say, to be strong.

Doctor Summers told me where you were going and asked me if I would write to you; I told him he was a idiot to let you go and it was my own d--n business whom I chose to write to. To appease me, he offered me Samuel as my apprentice and Emma as my nurse, so you see, Baroness, how nicely you arranged things before you left. As for Hale and Hastings, he is a fool and she is a harpy; I would not concern yourself with them for my sake.

I ask only that I may hear from you, from time to time, from your high post at Beacon Hill. Write to me of your nephews (would it surprise you to know that I am fond of children?), write to me of your Abolitionist work and your Transcendentalists, and write to me of yourself.

Godspeed and good luck.

Your most loyal friend,

Jedediah Foster 

* * *

 


	2. Four letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long the post would have taken from Alexandria to Boston during the Civil War, but if steamers and trains got through, I imagine letters would have done so at about the same speed.

 

* * *

11 Feb ‘63

Miss Phinney:

Again I must apologize for my behavior. The post has left; the letter cannot be retrieved, but please allow me to begin anew and forget that I ever sent another.

My most sincere condolences on the death of your sister. I wish you had told me of her illness that I might have suggested a physician in Boston. I correspond with a Doctor Jonathan Harris in Cambridge; we trained together in Paris and you may trust absolutely in his skill and discretion, should you or your nephews have any need of medical care, or should you desire to take up nursing again. What are the little boys’ names? How fortunate they are that they shall find a mother in you, though your presence will be missed at Mansion House.

Your departure has left many here anxious for your well being on the journey North, most particularly Mister Diggs and Aurelia. Miss Green has also asked after you, and Sister Isabella. If I may pass them your address, so that they might write to you (you see I have taken the liberty myself), they would be much obliged. And please take this letter as an indication that I, too, desire a correspondence with you, should you have a moment to spare from your duties.

I wonder what Boston is like now that war is upon the Nation. How I loved that city when I visited as a medical student, loved its crooked cow-path streets, its churches and greens and cemeteries where the old Patriots rest. Have you attended services at King’s Chapel, I wonder; the calm I felt in those sturdy pews, listening to that message of love and service to all, is unmet by any sermon I have heard since.

May you enjoy a loving reunion with your family, and may you have a happy Easter at their side, if my letters take so long to get there.

Your friend,

Jedediah Foster

* * *

 February 21, 1863

Dr. Foster:

Thank you for your letters; they awaited me when I arrived in Beacon Hill. It seems the post still makes it way through, despite the War. My journey was not arduous, as I spent it in the company of many soldiers and officers traveling home on furlough, and the joy of so many newly freed Negroes traveling North cannot be compared. You should have seen their faces as they bustled about the wagon, heard the clear harmonies of the hymns they sang at night. It truly is a marvelous thing, this Freedom. I am reminded of Mister Diggs and Aurelia, and am hopeful that her freedom will also bring them joy.

Thank you for asking after my nephews. Joseph is not quite eight years old and is quite the man of the house, looking after his younger brother Mathias and defending his honor in the little pack of boys who play on Beacon Hill. They are still learning what it is to have lost their mother; Mathias, especially, asks where she has gone and clings to my skirts as if he fears that I will leave again too. They are lovely boys, so brave and so well-mannered, and I hope that they shall never have to live through another war again.

You asked what Boston was like, now that the Union is threatened. The city has mobilized to take in the wounded and the bereft; there are makeshift hospitals and clinics in every quarter. Then, too, is the constant influx of free Negroes, and the borough is struggling to house and feed and give employment to all those who wish to work. Though the battlefields are far away, one cannot forget, here, that we are at war. Nor do I wish to forget what I have seen in Alexandria, what I have seen of His goodness and mercy upon the fallen and the sick, and what I have seen of Freedom, Suffering, and Redemption at Mansion House.

You may write to me here, if you ever have a moment to send a dispatch North.

May you be well, Jedediah.

In friendship,

Mary Phinney

* * *

1 Mar ‘63

Miss Phinney:

I am at my desk in my room, where it is very quiet and very still, trying to finish my notes for the day, but ~~I thought to send you~~ ~~you have been in my thoughts~~ I find myself contemplative and brooding this evening. You have seen me this way before, and know that my tongue turns harsh and I say things I should not say. I should not have said, for instance, those things I said about the Baron. There are many reasons one turns to medicine or nursing, and who am I to judge another’s motives? You, surely, have guessed mine: curiosity, exhilaration, arrogance, the belief that I can do what no other man can do. I think, sometimes, that I would have made a poor soldier, for I am cowardly and self-interested, and believe in no cause but that of saving lives. But even with my training, I cannot make the dead rise again, and this week, this month, we have lost too many men to contemplate. I have not sought out the bottle of morphine, and liquor holds few charms for me, but I find a pipe of Virginia tobacco to be a great comfort on nights like this.

I have not lost a mother (except by her own volition), but I too have lost a sister, and have not recovered from that loss though it was nearly five years ago. Clara passed away while I was in France; it was not an illness but a sudden accident, and she died instantly when her pony threw her. She was a year younger than I and by odd coincidence we shared the same birthday, the 8th of April. I hate that day now, like I hate green velvet ribbons and the smell of violets and can’t abide a dainty brown mare. You may have guessed, now, why my ‘experiments’ took such strong hold of me and why the habit has been so tortuous in its breaking. I have not thought of Clara so often in the last five years as I have thought of her since I have given up my morphine. She loved the world with that sweet earnest love for what is good and right, with that disposition of the Righteous and the Blessed that so few of us ever share. You have that same disposition, I think, but you have been tested as she never was, and have come out the stronger for it.

There is a ceasefire this week, and the stars above Alexandria are brighter than I have ever seen them. Have you ever been in the forests of Virginia, or walked the wide beaches of the Chesapeake at night with a warm breeze at your back? How I wish I were the boy I once was, a boy ~~you might have~~ who didn’t know what this black pit of loss looked like. I feel it keenly tonight, and wish you were here tonight to remind me of my promise and to anchor me in this darkness. I would imagine you belong more to the fields and bays of Massachusetts, but even the stars shine in the cold North.     

Your friend,

Jedediah

* * *

 10 March 1863

Dr. Foster:     

March in Boston is still so very cold. There is snow on the walk and ice on the eaves and the little boys build snow forts in the lane. But soon we will see crocuses and daffodils and spring will be here by Easter. The North is not all coldness and ice, you see, and there is beauty even in the cold and the darkness.

It is much work to look after two boys. I thought I was prepared for this task, having cared for so many men at Mansion House, but now I see the difference between a ward, where there are other nurses and physicians and helpers of all sorts, and a home, where it is just me and Betty, my sister’s elderly servant. Mathias has nightmares, and Joe is always sneaking away to play, and if it were not for Joe’s grammar school, I would not know how to manage. Mathias will enter there next year and then, I am certain, it will be easier.

I have copied out a poem for you, not yet published but circulating here among a few; I do not know if you like poetry, but I am sure you at least would not confuse Longfellow and Emerson. It’s Emerson who has recommended this new poet, and Mr. Whitman is much in vogue among the Transcendentalists. I have little time for literary salons these days, what with the boys, but there was a time when I did follow Emerson and his ilk. That time seems very long ago, and yet this poetry feels very new, not yet stale from convention and overuse. You might like this honest sort of poetry. 

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;        
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;    
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;          
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,            
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;           
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,             
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,         
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Write to me when you can of the doings at Mansion House, I so long to know how the people there are faring.

Your friend,

Mary Phinney 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking an artistic liberty here, as Whitman's 1865 poem was only published in the 1867 edition of 'Leaves of Grass,' but as I had this poem in mind as I was writing the chapter, I couldn't bear to leave it out. Henceforth I will refer to the 1860 edition.


	3. Five letters and one telegram

20 Mar ‘63

Dear Miss Phinney:

Was that poem intended to be a jibe at the learn’d astronomer or at the learn’d physician? I have been reading it over and trying to understand its meaning and your purpose in sending it to me. Please enlighten me, if you would.

You asked me to send you word of Mansion House. You will be pleased to hear that, for the very first time, I performed more amputations this week than Doctor Hale. I was helped, of course, by the small matter of him being indisposed with an ailment best not mentioned in polite company. What that means is that I have been extremely pressed to perform not only my responsibilities as physician and as Executive Officer (of which, happily, those are but few), but to also cover Hale’s rounds. It is just as well that we have not received many new casualties lately, though that also is not entirely pleasant news; after our defeat at Fredericksburg, the men of the Potomac have been deserting and Burnside is hard-pressed to keep them here. I fear we will not take Richmond soon, and this war will drag on until I can perform amputations in my sleep.

I have not been entirely idle in your absence, though; I am writing up a case study of our man with expressive aphemia, describing his symptoms and the trephination we successfully performed, and will send it to Professor Broca at the earliest opportunity. Even if his views on cerebral localization are not widely shared at this moment, I believe this study will contribute much to the field. May I ask a favor of you? Will you review the enclosed manuscript and add to it any additional symptoms you observed, either before or after the surgery? It would be of much help to me, should you have a moment.

I have not told you yet of your friends at Mansion House. Miss Green, as you say, has made a skilled nurse, but is increasingly preoccupied by I know-not-what personal matters. She tells me her father is in prison and her brother has signed the Loyalty Oath, but I believe something else troubles her. She confides in the Chaplain and no one else, and seems to have taken a particular interest in charting what enters and leaves the supply closet. Not a drop more of morphine than should be missing, I promise you, though I suspect Nurse Hastings is less pleased by the sudden stoppage of her liquor store. Your friends Samuel and Aurelia are well, and are to be married after Easter. He adores her son and I believe they will be very happy, as long as Alexandria remains Union territory.

And what of you, Baroness? I call you that but I would rather write ~~something bolder~~ your name, if I may drop that one formality. Tell me more of your life in Boston, and the poetry you are reading, and when or whether the crocuses are in bloom. Tell me what you plan for Easter, and whether your nephews are well. Tell me something of your self that I do not know.

Your friend,

Jedediah

* * *

March 27, 1863

Dear Jedediah:

No jibe was intended in that poem – not, I think, by Whitman, and certainly not by me. I sent the poem to you because in the midst of crisis we all tend to cling to our idols and ideologies – whether Astronomy, Medicine, Religion, or Abolitionism – and ignore the material existence upon which our lives are based. The stars, the snow; the yellow and purple bursts of crocuses; the smell of fresh, wet earth; the blood and sinews of men; the grace of music, the voice of a child, the tears we shed. And yet what is life if not made up of these things? I think this is what Whitman is trying to say, and so perhaps I wanted to remind you of the same, and to be honest, to remind myself as well.

I never thanked you for what you did for me on the day the President visited Mansion House. I imagine it was boredom that prompted you inside again, but I was grateful to not be alone when that soldier left our world. ~~You~~ It had been a long time since I had cried like that, and you can guess in what circumstances. Does death ever grow old? Does love ever die? Will I ever stop feeling the pain of Gustav’s loss?

Thank you for sending me news of Mansion House, and for making me laugh with your descriptions of it. I miss it there, though my work here is important, too. I am so happy for Samuel and Aurelia, but distressed to hear that Miss Green is preoccupied with personal matters. Her position is a difficult one.

I am flattered you would consult me for your monograph on expressive aphemia, and of course I will provide you with the descriptions you requested. They are enclosed on an additional sheet.

You asked me to tell you something of myself that you do not know. That would be nearly everything, Jedediah. You think you know me, but you do not. You think you know why I became a nurse, why I joined the Cause, why I have returned to Boston, but you know hardly anything of it or of me. You think I am too proper and too Yankee, that I don’t know how to laugh or to flirt, that I am endlessly sacrificing and noble where you imagine you are not. I am none of these things, not entirely, and nor do you entirely lack them. You are serious and earnest but pretend to be flippant and casual. You care desperately for the opinions of others, but act as if you scorn convention. You are married to one woman but write to another. I cannot pretend this correspondence, this friendship, your questions, mean nothing to me. To my astonishment, they mean a great deal ~~as do .~~ Does that surprise you as well? That I should see you so clearly, that I should have seen you at your very worst, and still wish for us to be friends? You are my patient no longer, Jedediah, and I am not your nurse. But I think here, in these letters, we might learn to see ourselves for who we are. We might at least be honest with each other, if we were not able to be honest at Mansion House. And so I ask you: to what end do you pursue this correspondence?

Your friend,

Mary

* * *

 March 28, 1863:

Dear Jedediah:

I am mindful that it is your birthday soon, and I do not know if this letter will reach you in time, but I want you to know that I will be thinking of you on that day, and on Easter as well, and wishing you friendship and peace within yourself.

Best,

Mary

* * *

8 Apr ‘63

Dear Mary:

Thank you for your birthday and Easter wishes; I hope that you passed an enjoyable Easter with your family.

 ~~I feel torn~~ ~~I wish I were not~~ ~~You are right to question me~~

I do not know when you will stop feeling the pain of your husband’s loss, and I am not in any position to ease your pain though I wish more than anything that I were the one to cure it. But I am certain you will bear it, and have born it, better than I have born the misery of being married to a woman I do not and cannot love. I see you as much further along in this work of mourning and renunciation, and more graceful and skilled at it, than I ever will be.

You ask me why I write to you: for friendship’s sake, for that is all that I can offer you and all that I would ask from you. You must know how much I respect and admire you, how distressed I would be if harm came to you because of me, and how much I envy the man – for there will be another, that I am certain – who will help you live with your great loss. That is all I can say, and even then I fear it is too much and you will not want to continue this correspondence, though you did demand honesty of me.

As always,

In friendship,

Jedediah Foster

* * *

 10 April, 1863

Jedediah:

I trust that you are well in Alexandria. I have been a resident of Redwood City for nearly six months, and plan to stay here indefinitely.

I write to you to inform you that our union, too, has ended: I am petitioning for divorce in California on the grounds of willful desertion and neglect on the evidence of the following: you having spent over three years alone in Europe since the beginning of our marriage; your refusal to remain in our home in Baltimore since your last return, instead absenting yourself to Alexandria; your final refusal to accompany me to California despite written indications from you to the contrary; and your neglect of your marital duties for the previous five years. As there were no children from our union, I cannot imagine there will be any impediments in the court here.

My solicitor, Mister Burroughs, will be sending you a letter shortly detailing the evidence of your misconduct in greater detail and enumerating my demands for compensation, which are few. For our future happiness, I suggest you comply with my wishes.

Divorce is not so uncommon in the West as it is in Baltimore, and as I do not plan to return back East to face the shame, you may refer to me in the future as you first knew me, as

\--Eliza James

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to San Francisco

25 April 1863

ELIZA – MESSAGE RECEIVED – ALL DEMANDS ACCEPTED EX ANTE – SEND PAPERS IMMEDIATELY -- JF

* * *

 


	4. A flurry of letters

April 25

Dear Jedediah:

~~I do not know where to b~~

Thank you for your honesty, and for your friendship. That is as good a place as any to start.

You are in a difficult position, but I trust you will find a way out of your misery, as you call it. I know what it is like to lose a loved one, but not what it is like for love itself to wither and die. That seems, in some way, to be the more painful loss, a loss not only of what was, but of what might have been and what might still be.  If that still might be, Jedediah, then I urge you to do what you can to make amends with her, so that you both might be happy.

I did not answer you well before, when you asked me to tell me something of myself that you did not know. I believe you meant that as an overture of friendship, and I threw it back at you, angered that you did not know me already when I had given you little opportunity to do so. So I will try to respond to your request now, and tell you a little of myself.

You will recall that I had some prior experience nursing not only the Baron, but my young nephews as well. A few months after we had laid my husband in the ground, Joe and Mattie came down with scarlet fever, and I was the one who nursed them back to health as my sister was expecting another child. She delivered a stillbirth, but even with so much loss, and with those little boys who might have been lost as well, I never thought it would be Caroline who would go first. It still astonishes me to enter her parlor and not see her at the window-seat, reading or doing piecework or calling to her boys. Her house is not my home; I feel her absence when I come upon her half-finished needlework, her kitchen account book, her Bible. Her husband bought her fine things – a half-dozen silk dresses, countless trimmed bonnets, little satin house-slippers – which, though we were of a size, I cannot bring myself to wear. Some day I will bring them to the Assistance League, as I brought Gustav’s things after he died, and hope that they will bring better luck to their next owner.

I have been reading much poetry lately, Longfellow and Tennyson to start but it is Whitman I turn to now, Whitman who speaks of our country, _now,_ of all that it contains and all the multitudes within it, and the men and women passing and passing on:

   With firm and regular step they wend—they never stop,   
   Successions of men, Americanos, a hundred millions,  
   One generation playing its part and passing on,  
   And another generation playing its part and passing on in its turn,  
   With faces turned sideways or backward toward me to listen,  
   With eyes retrospective toward me.

I can see them passing before me when I remember the boys coming up from the river to die in our ward, remember the Negroes’ hymns in my carriage at night, remember the jubilation of Lincoln’s visit, the throngs of celebrants. Whitman lends himself to imitation, to admiration, and greater inquiry. Some are scandalized by him; I am intrigued and inspired.  

Good night and be well,

Mary

* * *

 May 1, 1863

Jedediah:

The news we hear of Chancellorsville is alarming. Please write and tell me you are well, that the fighting has not turned towards Alexandria.

I pray for your safety and for the victory of our belabored army.

Send me word when you can,

Mary 

* * *

 4 May ‘63

Dear Mary:

As ever, you continue to astonish me; I thought you would not write to me again. The post has been intermittent since the fighting began at Chancellorsville, and I could not believe my luck at your letter having gotten through (or having been sent, at all).

Already we are getting many wounded men in, and more still are coming up the river. What need we have now of your skilled care, your firm presence in the wards, your sense of order and calm amidst the urgency of so many surgeries, so many hungry, so many dying men! And what need I have, too, of a friend such as you, to help moor me in this eddy of activity and wretchedness. I have not slept more than three hours in the past three days, so fast do the wards fill up, so many are the needs of the wounded. I know that you would urge me to get my rest if you were here and if I refused you, you would bring your candle to light the way to my room, where I would then sleep the deep sleep of the blessed, knowing that you had brought me there.

You must have loved your sister very much, to miss her so. But do not give away your sister’s dresses, I implore you. Save one for yourself, at the least. Pick a fine blue or crimson, if she favored those colors, and have the fabric made up again in a different, newer style. And if she has left behind some fine cotton lawn, save that as well, for once your Freedom comes there will be few left to pick the cotton that runs your Northern mills, and silk and wool may come cheaper than muslin. Save her fine things, for who knows when such things will be had again? Everything has become scarcer in this war, and you should not have to go without when you have such things at your disposal.

As for my poor self, I cannot make amends with my wife; the time has long passed for that. But I hope that I will soon have reason to view this war as the origin of my own Freedom, though in this case the union must be dissolved, not restored.

Be well, Mary, and write me soon and often, lest the post fail to get through.

\--Jedediah

* * *

 May 6, 1863

Dear Jedediah:

All Boston is weeping for the loss at Chancellorsville. The churches have silenced their bells, and somber carriages pass through the streets.

Please write to me to tell me you are all right. I cannot imagine what chaos surrounds you, so close to the battlefield, with so many soldiers in retreat and so many wounded to heal.

Give Matron Brannan the key to the supply cabinet, and I will be at greater ease.

Your friend,

Mary

* * *

 8 May ‘63

Dear Mary:

The devastation after Chancellorsville is astounding -- thousands if not tens of thousands dead, wounded, and captured. No one can understand how Lee achieved his victory, but we are humbled all of us, and sobered by the thought of how many more deaths are needed for the Union to take Richmond. This war will not be over by summer, likely not by winter either, and our work here will not end until it does.

How I miss you, Mary! I have not slept or bathed in days, my eyes are red with fatigue and my hands are blistered from the saw, and though wretched I may be, I wish nothing more than that you were at my side.

I check the mailroom daily for your letters; please do not abandon  
your friend,

Jedediah

* * *

 12 May ‘63

Dear Mary,

I write in hopes that this letter will get through to you and you will continue to write to me. In fact, I depend upon it. Though I have scarcely a minute to myself, I read and re-read your letters and hope for the day when I will see you again.

I convinced (greenbacks are very convincing) a bookish lieutenant from a Virginia regiment to send me a copy of Whitman’s book when he returns to Washington City next week, so I will see if your scandalous poet leaves me as inspired as he does you.

Yours,

Jed

* * *

May 13

Oh dear Jedediah!

I wonder that you could tease and write to me of dresses when you knew – as we in the North did not yet know – of just how much destruction and death was wrought at Chancellorsville! Today I received your letter of May 4 and will continue to write often until we know that the post has fully resumed.

With every newssheet detailing long lists of the dead and captured, I long to know how you are faring there so close to the front lines. Is there anything I can do, anything I can send? I have spoken to the women at the Assistance League and I am helping them to prepare a box of supplies for Mansion House -- bandages, tourniquets, chloroform, syringes, needles, silk and cotton thread -- to send as soon as we can find a reliable man to bring it. How I wish I were there, too, to be of some greater use to the Cause than I am here.

Just as so many have already been freed, I hope this year will bring you your Freedom, if that is what you desire.

Until then, and always,  
in friendship,

Mary

* * *

 May 18, 1863

Dear Jed:

We have found someone to deliver supplies to Mansion House; his name is Franklin Thwaites and he is a lieutenant in the Massachusetts Third Battalion, now home on furlough but returning soon to Washington City. I have written to Miss Dix and she will accept the package from him and find a way to send it to Mansion House. You have not told me if she had sent one of her nurses to replace me, but I hope Doctor Summers’ relations remain cordial with her, for if this method works it may be a way for me to continue to send supplies to Mansion House. Please let me know when they are delivered, and tell what else you might need.

Be well, Jedediah.

Your friend,

Mary

* * *

 20 May ‘63

Dear Mary:

What a comfort it is to get your letters in the midst of so much ~~carnage~~ ~~blood~~ ~~misery~~ toil.

We have begun to discharge some of our patients, and others have been sent direct to Washington City, so the burden has become somewhat lighter in recent days. The wards are still full to bursting, and we all of us are irritable and dispirited, none more than myself. Some of the orderlies have turned to drink, and the Matron has her hands full keeping moonshine off of the wards. You will be pleased to know that I still have not touched the syringe, almost seven months it has been now. Sweet sleep has returned to me at last following so much exertion, and I look forward to the time when I can read a few of Whitman’s lines before I retire at night. The greenbacks did their work and the book arrived yesterday; I am eager to read this poet you so admire and converse with you about something other than war and death.

Please pardon the presumption of some of my earlier letters; take them as the ravings of a sleepless wretch, and know that I write you always  
in the spirit of most sincere friendship,

Jedediah


	5. Three letters and three telegrams

24 May 1863

Dear Jedediah:

I believe the post has resumed, as I received your letter of May 12th without delay. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on Whitman, and enjoy these frequent letters as, in some way, they make me feel as if I have not left Mansion House, as if I were still a nurse and not a nursemaid.

I received news from my sister’s husband; there has been some talk of a prisoner exchange after Chancellorsville, and he is madly hopeful to be released. He lost a hand in battle, and I am grateful for the kindness of the Confederate doctors who removed his arm to save his life. I am also mindful of your many admonitions that I show greater charity to all men in our charge, for without our enemy’s care, I would have not only have lost a sister, but a brother as well.

I could not rest well, thinking of you these last weeks. Please take care of yourself, if not for your sake, then for the sake of  
your friend,  
Mary

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to San Francisco

30 May 1863

ELIZA – PAPERS RECEIVED SIGNED SENT – AWAIT RECEIPT – JED – THANK YOU

* * *

 1 June ‘63

Dear Mary:

Your supplies arrived today, accompanied by another emissary of Miss Dix, a grey-haired, withered spinster by the name of Miss Furness. She is to be Head Nurse, and now that Miss Hastings is relieved of her temporary command, she cannot speak highly enough about the absent Miss Phinney. Did you know, Mary, that no one could soothe the men like you could, not one had your spunk and gumption, no one (besides Anne herself) could administer chloroform so very capably or apply plaster without fault? Surely she need not remind me of your many accomplishments, as I am well aware of the debt I owe to your nursing.

You cannot know how pleased I was to receive, too, the scrimshaw box and those fine rolled cigars within. Thank you, dear friend. You make me curious about the origins of the box; some Nantucket sailor, some New Bedford sea captain? Pray do enlighten me ~~or it will drive me to distra~~

I had some time to walk today, a rare free afternoon while Miss Furness and Miss Hastings rearranged the wards according to some new method devised by Miss Dix. I brought Whitman with me and one of your cigars, and lolled and loafed by the river like I have not done since I was a youth. Did you know that, not far from our hospital, are peaceful meadows, brooks, and hollows untouched by any battle? You would hardly have recognized me, my beard trimmed, my shirtsleeves stained with grass, my pale skin getting its first touch of sunshine in so many months. I thought often of you on my walk and wondered what late spring is like in Boston this year.

I wish to write more – about Whitman, about his startlingly democratic poetry, about other verses contained within that you perhaps had not considered when you recommended his book to me – and yet the time has not yet come when I may speak to you about those things.

Until then,

Your loyal friend,

Jedediah Foster

* * *

 June 8, 1863

Dear Jedediah:

How I long for you to write everything you wish to say to me, to hold nothing back!

War has no hour but this hour, and this is the time for me to speak though you say your time has not yet come.

   (O I willingly stake all, for you!  
   O let me be lost, if it must be so!  
   O you and I—what is it to us what the rest do or think?  
   What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other,  
   and exhaust each other, if it must be so.)

Am I wrong to hope that you will have read this far in your Whitman?

Yours,

Mary

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
San Francisco to Washington City

17 June 1863

JED – PAPERS RECEIVED – FILED COURT – DIVORCE FINAL – ELIZA

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston

18 June 1863

MARY – I AM FREE – UNION DISSOLVED - O YOU ENTIRELY POSSESS ME – LET US EXHAUST EACH OTHER – JEDEDIAH


	6. Four letters and two telegrams

 19 Jun ‘63

Dear Mary:

You will have received my telegram by now and will want an explanation.

Eliza sent word yesterday from California that our divorce is final; I have hinted as much, that we were to be separated, but she has made it reality.

I am a free man – oh sweet Freedom that you so often have invoked – I understand that invocation now, that yearning for freedom, and now -- this lifting of the weight of years, this lightness I feel, like youth returned. It is a glorious feeling, this freedom mixed with hope.

I think you can guess what my hope is – that I might write to you not as a friend, but as a lover.

You will want to know: who am I to ask such a thing of you? I am yours, if you will have me now in this disgraced state. I welcome the disgrace because it brings me my freedom, but you may not, and so I will tell you who I am and what you might expect of me. I would not have you “stake all” if you do not know the full of what you are betting on.

I am thirty-six years old, a physician by training and army doctor by trade; this much you know. I am irascible, arrogant, hot-tempered, sarcastic and misanthropic, given too much to melancholy and self-pity. But I am also honest, industrious, loyal, dogged, punctilious, tender, and passionate. I am quick to hate and quicker still to love, though I have been unlucky thus far in that regard.

I was married to Eliza for six years, and three of those I spent in France and Germany in the advancement of my medical training. She is the daughter of the man who was my father’s closest friend; our families were pleased by our marriage, but it became evident early in our union that we were not suited for each other, and furthering my education became a convenient excuse for putting a great distance between the two of us. I should not disparage her, as she has granted me my freedom, but if you can imagine a woman with the least curiosity about the world, the least selflessness of character, and not the slightest interest in improving herself or the lot of others, then you can picture her. In brief, she is everything you are not, for you are intelligent, forthright, noble, and generous, and you are the woman for me if you will have me.

I have ample means, but those are tied up in the estate of my late father, and belong to my brother as well. As I have no intention to own slaves, even should the Confederacy persist, it is likely that my inheritance will depreciate in value. But I have my medical practice in Baltimore, which provided me with a sufficient income before the war, and that practice is eminently transportable. I will have enough to provide comfortably for a wife and children after this war, and my current salary and income is sufficient for the few needs I have now.

I write to you now with only one intention, and that is to strive to win your love so that you might accept, at some future date, my offer of marriage. I will not ask that of you now, but I mean you to know that my intentions are, and have always been (since I put away the morphine), of the most honorable kind.

Please know that my greatest regret is that our first kiss should have been the one that I stole from you in my addled state, and I fear that you should think me a monster, another Bullen, a man ready to paw at the closest thing in skirts. You were right when you said, “This is not you!” as you wrestled me to the floor. I was not myself in that state, for I have been raised to respect women, and of all women it is you that I respect the most. Please forgive me my fumblings and believe me when I say that I shall never pursue you in that way again, unless you give me leave to do so.

If this letter displeases you – if _I_ displease you – then tell me straight away, and I will trouble you no more with such letters or thoughts, and we can return to how we have always been, as friends.

Respectfully,

Jedediah Thurmond Foster

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City

20 June 1863

JED – LOAFE WITH ME ON THE GRASS – LOOSE THE STOP FROM YOUR THROAT – MARY

* * *

 June 21, 1863

Dearest Jedediah:

By now you will have received my telegram, and will know by my response that I also received your joyful news.

It is most pleasing to me that you have read as far as you have done in your Whitman.

So now I do _entirely_ possess you? Have I my spaniel at last? (You must know I meant it when I handed back the key to you – your destiny is your own, but oh how happy I would be if you would lend me its safekeeping from time to time.)

How I long to see you again, to loafe with you on the grass, to walk at your side as we so often did at Mansion House. Thinking back on those days – so brief, so poignant! – I am reminded of these words of the poet:

    O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you,  
    As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,  
    Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

I could not have written you before of these things, could not have told you how I sought you out on every ward I entered at Mansion House, how I felt your presence in the room even before I saw you. But I know you too felt that “subtle electric fire” of which Whitman writes, felt that sparkling, physical energy as your hands brushed mine when you passed me a razor, when you commanded me to assist you and I obeyed, or when we two of us threw ourselves down upon that mad patient with the pistol and stopped him. You thought I was visiting a patient then, that I was the wife or sister of some poor injured boy, and I could see the admiration in your eyes when you first addressed me. Then when I presented myself and you knew I was to be your colleague, it was as if you begrudged me the admiration you had so freely given when I was a stranger. What did it mean to you, that I was not merely a visitor but had, in fact, come to stay? Why did you shut yourself off from me then, tease me with my title, argue with me about Abolition (when I believe you share the same opinion)? What other things have you been keeping from me? Tell me all of it, I beg of you, so that I may know what I may say in return.

It is the longest day of the year, and evening stretches out till almost nine o’clock. I feel unsettled this spring, enervated by the long days and the humid nights, troubled by longings I do not dare name. I have taken to long strolls through town in the evenings, trying to walk away this mad restlessness in the streets and byways, amidst the throng of humanity. I wish I were elsewhere; I wish I were with you.

Until then,

Yours,  
Mary

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston

22 June 1863

MARY -- NOT WORDS NOT MUSIC OR RHYME I WANT – ONLY THE HUM OF YOUR VALVED VOICE -- JED

* * *

 23 June ‘63

Oh dearest Mary:

I received your telegram, and I will do the very best to “loose the stop” from my throat, as you ask.

I will tell you I love you until you are sick of the telling: I love you, Mary Phinney, and I am entirely yours.

I thought I knew what love was, and I knew nothing of it until now. I knew of physical love, and of the romantic love of poets and Shakespeare, but I thought both sorts were exaggerated, oversold tales told for an effect and unfounded by empirical evidence, for nothing in my own experience compared with the love of which I heard others speak. Nothing, that is, until now, until you. Now I understand entirely what the poets and philosophers were driving at. It was no myth – Orpheus’ love for Eurydice, Eros’ love for Psyche, Heloise for Abelard –, though they may have been mythological figures. _This_ is love I feel, this mad yearning to be with you, to hold you, to hear your voice and to press you to my side and run my hands up and down your womanly body. (Forgive me my boldness, but as you are no blushing maid, I presume you can imagine the effect of your body upon my own, and will not fault me for what is entirely natural and admissible.) But it is not only the physical I speak of when I speak of love, for I have not seen you or touched you in nearly six months and still I feel impassioned by your letters, by the box you sent me in kindness, and by the occasional recollection of how you once stood just there, in the entry to my room, and did not despise me in my misery.

I know I love you because I do not want you to sacrifice yourself to me, unless some good can come of it, and was almost distressed that you should quote me Whitman’s verses about staking all, when we did not yet know for certain that I was free to give myself to you, and I did not know if I could hold myself back from your dangerous offer. I know I love you because you are the one I think about when my rounds are done and I have those few minutes alone to myself at night; you are the one I write to in my head, when a procedure is tedious. “What would Nurse Mary do?” I have asked myself many a time. I love you and I wish to marry you and make a proper home together, have you be its mistress and set me right in the many ways I still need mending. But I do not need you as my nurse, but rather want you to be my helpmate, my lover, the mother of my children, the dearest woman in the world to me. I too wish to loafe with you on the grass, to stop this day and night with you, to be yours entirely -- you, my lover and my perfect equal.

There, I believe I have sufficiently loosened all stops, let out the best and worst of myself, and await, most eagerly, your next letter.

Yours,

Jed

* * *

 June 25, 1863

Dear Miss Phinney:

It is Miss Green who writes you, from Mansion House Hospital.

I hope that you are well in Boston and that your nephews have recovered their health; Miss Hastings informs me that it was they whom you nursed before coming to Alexandria.

You invited me to write to you, and I have been remiss in responding to your invitation. Please forgive me. I would very much like to begin a correspondence with you, for you are, I feel, the only one who could understand my predicament.

When you left Mansion House, you may have heard that my father was imprisoned for refusing to sign the Loyalty Oath. Shortly after, my brother signed it as head of the household, and so our family – those of us still in Alexandria – are now loyal to the Union. I promise you, Mary, that ever since my brother James signed that paper, I have behaved in no way that could be considered disloyal to the Union. I work at the Hospital every day – they have made me a nurse now – and I attend any boy who needs my care, whether blue or grey. There are other women who wish to nurse only the Confederate men, and so I leave that task to them, but I have become more ecumenical in my service, as befits someone whose family is loyal to the Union.

You will wonder why I write to you, and I myself scarcely know how to begin or what I need ask of you.

Before the war, I had a beau, a young man I had know since childhood, my brother’s closest friend. I saw him for the last time shortly before you left Alexandria, and have sent him few letters since. I did not like the person he had become when I saw him last – so secretive, so preoccupied with things he could not share with me, so cruel in his single-minded purpose – and so I have tried to put him behind me, as you once admonished me to put childish things aside. I have all too quickly grown into a woman, and I have no need for people such as he.

But I write you because there is someone else that I have come to care for – the chaplain, Henry Hopkins. He has not spoken to me of love, not in so many words, but you know how he uses parables to say what he means, and I believe he loves me by the care he shows me and the words he speaks to me. I believe that what I feel for him may also be love, but how can I know for certain when I thought I loved Frank, and that was just a childish fancy? You, who have been married, and who loved your husband – what does that love feel like? How do you know that it is not merely a passing whim? I ask with some urgency because my family -- loyalty oath aside -- would be greatly displeased to know that I have formed a friendship with a Union man. If I am to risk all, then I must know that this is a woman's love I feel for him and not a childish attachment.

I await your advice on this grave matter, and hope that you are well in Boston. You are much missed here at Mansion House.

Your friend,

Emma Green

 


	7. Four letters and four telegrams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am particularly grateful to the readers who have left such generous and thoughtful comments here for me. You inspire me with every chapter I publish, and I always look forward to your feedback.
> 
> Thank you,  
> Emma

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston  
25 June 1863

MARY – I AM HE THAT ACHES WITH LOVE -- IT IS A PAINFUL THING TO LOVE A WOMAN TO EXCESS -- JED

* * *

 June 27, 1863

Dear Jed:

Your letter of June 19th nearly made me lose my bearings; I opened it soon as the mail came and tripped on the steps as I walked inside, so eager I was to read all of it at once.

Your letters, and your person, do not in any way displease me. If only you could know how much I treasure your missives, and how eagerly I await the next, you would not hesitate to address me as you have.

You did a great thing, telling me of your past so honestly, but I do believe you rather misrepresented yourself. Arrogant and irascible, that you are; tender and passionate you have also shown yourself to be – but misanthropic you are not. I think, rather, that you are an idealist at heart, but are disappointed by your fellow man and so have turned a cynic. Let not this war turn you further this way; remember what we are fighting for, and remember what good works you do, every day, with your medicine.

So as you told me of yourself, so shall I do the same. I am twenty-eight years old, a widow and an orphan. My father was a lawyer and my mother’s father was a doctor – so you see, my calling to nurse was not entirely a result of my husband’s death. I have an older brother, George, ten years my senior, a lieutenant in the Third Massachusetts Battalion, and before I my marriage I lived with him on our family farm, for we lost our parents when I was scarcely seventeen. Caroline was two years older than I, and we three were very close.

My late husband was a baron, it is true, but as you have been to Germany you are aware of just how common that title is in that country, and how little it may count in the way of material things. Gustav was an immigrant, an engineer, and we met at a cotton mill and dye house where I worked, briefly, to design the prints for its fabrics. I was trained to sketch and paint from a young age, and sought to employ my talents in some useful way when it became apparent that I was not to be married young. It is not the custom for Yankee women to be idle, as Southern women aspire to be; this comes, I think, from our history of being small and self-sufficient land-owners, eking out a living in an inhospitable climate, where every person is expected to contribute to the family’s economy. I was educated at several Academies and know some Latin, French, and German, but I was also taught to cook and sew, tend livestock, care for children, and settle accounts. I have an independent income from my father’s farm, and as I earn generous dividends on several of Gustav’s patents, I am not wanting in the way of material wealth. If I marry again, it will not be to secure an income, for I am already assured of that; love and companionship will be what will persuade me to marry again.

I was fortunate, as you were not, that my marriage was a happy one before my husband’s illness. He had a quick mind and a loving spirit, and I loved him in return. Our union bore no children, which greatly grieved me, and I do not know the cause of its barrenness. I gave up my widow’s black when I came to work at Mansion House, as Miss Dix thought it rather too melancholy an attire for a nurse, but I would gladly have worn those somber shades for the rest of my life in his memory. But – Jedediah – he is dead now, and I am alive, and I will not keep color from my life any longer.

You may write to me as a lover, for that you already are to me, though we be so far apart.

Yours,

Mary Phinney

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston  
28 June 1863

I WOULD DO YOU GOOD – I AM FOR YOU AND YOU ARE FOR ME. -- JF

* * *

30 June ‘63

My dearest Mary:

There is a theme to our correspondence: how cruel this separation has been to us, and how ardently we each wish to see the other. I propose to remedy this situation.

I have served in the Union Army for more than six months and am due my furlough soon, if Summers will consent to lose one of his doctors for a fortnight. I have been in correspondence with my friend, Doctor Harris, and he has invited me to give a demonstration of a trephination for the medical students at Cambridge. I will need an experienced assistant – will you be she? They may consider it highly irregular to have a woman nurse in the operating theatre, but I think I can challenge whatever opposition they throw at me.

All this is pretext, of course, for me coming to call on you in Boston, if you are in agreement.

These letters – oh, these letters! – are divine, but I long to hear the lull of your valvèd voice, to loafe a while on the grass with you (if there are any such private spaces in Boston), to kiss your parted lips and show you by my actions how much I love you.

    This is no book,  
    Who touches this, touches a man,  
    (Is it night? Are we here alone?)  
    It is I you hold, and who holds you,  
    I spring from the pages into your arms.

How I wish to hold you in my arms, to have you willingly approach me, welcome my embraces, respond to me with all the passion I feel for you!

It is because I have so long felt that subtle electric fire in your presence that I shut you out, disparaged you, was at times cruel to you. It was dangerous to feel such fire in my blood when I was still a married man. But now that I am free I may tell you all that I have felt for you, and when it first began.

When you threw yourself upon that troubled soldier and did not flinch at me throwing myself upon you, my first thought was that some other man was lucky to have a woman such as you to visit him, for a woman with that much spirit would be passionate in other ways. That was the beginning of my love for you, and explains my disgruntled temper, my sharp words, my reluctant admittance of you into my company for so long, for I already feared what I know now: that you were the kind of woman to whom I would become entirely and irrevocably attached. And so I teased you, I belittled you, I mocked you so that you would not see how much you mattered to me, how entirely besotted I had become in such a short while.

Did you have a dress made up for yourself from your sister’s frocks? Tell me which one, and how it looks on you, so I might imagine how you will look when I see you again. And then I might tell you what other things I have been holding back.

Yours,

Jedediah

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston  
July 1, 1863

MARY – I DRAW YOU CLOSE TO ME YOU WOMAN – I CANNOT LET YOU GO – JED

* * *

 July 1, 1863:

Dear Miss Green:

How glad I was to receive your letter, and to have some news of you at Mansion House! I thank you for your confidence in me, and will strive to answer you as best I can.

It is indeed a grave matter of which you write, for as you say, you should not risk all if you are not certain of your love for the chaplain. And yet, what is love if not risk? – for we none of us know how things are to end when we enter in marriage with another. I could not have known, for instance, that my young husband, the very picture of health, carried within him the germ of the illness that would kill him. Knowing that, would I have still married him? I believe I would have, and that is how I know, in part, that it was love I felt towards him.

Emma, in truth I think you know what love is and what love feels like, for love is self-evident to those who feel it. You do not need me to tell you what love is, for you already have that knowledge. And you know of what the Bible says: “Love is patient, love is kind, love is not jealous, it does not boast, it does not become conceited…” Attend closely to those verses, for they will teach you more of love than ever I could.

What I might add, if I may, is to ask you to consider, quite seriously, what it is you want from marriage. Love is all very well, but many people have entered into marriage where love was not initially given, but rather earned over time, and have been quite happy in those matches. Still others have hastily entered into marriages where there was clearly love, but not the other things that might form the basis of a lifelong union: respect, regard, selflessness, constancy, and duty. For a marriage cannot be formed on love alone, and love alone should not form the basis of your decision to give yourself to another. And you have so much to give! – you are intelligent, gentle, patient, and spirited, and you must not waste your gifts on someone who would spurn them or, worse, destroy them. I do not think the chaplain would be a man to overlook your value, and yet the fact that he is a good man – for he is a good man -- should also, I think, not be cause enough to marry him.

And then there is the physical side of marriage to consider, which many women find unsatisfactory, though it need not be so. Because we are taught that men alone have physical desires, and men alone wish to satisfy them, we let them satisfy themselves without demanding they do the same of us, and we are left bereft and wanting. Be circumspect, Emma, be chaste, but ask yourself if you feel physical desire for the man you love, and consider whether he is also capable of satisfying you, as you no doubt will please him with your beauty, your youth, and your tenderness.

I do not know if I have disappointed you or shocked you with my response, but please know that it was given in an earnest wish for you to be happy, as I was happy in my marriage, and as I still have cause to hope I will be happy again in love.

Your friend,

Mary

* * *

 July 4, 1863

My Dear Jedediah:

Oh happy day of Freedom! Oh happy victory at Gettysburg! Has the tide turned at last in this wicked war? Will this mean – perhaps – an end to fighting and an end to our separation? I pray for both, but today I am happy – happy – happy! – and so proud of our men who fought in Pennsylvania to stop Lee’s ferocious march northward.

I have had word from my brother, who was in that battle, that he is well, though his Battalion suffered many losses. I am grateful for his continued health and safety in this war.

And how are you, my lover and my friend? What news have you to tell of Alexandria and the hospital? What news of yourself? Now that you have loosened your tongue I wish for it to never cease addressing me.

You will be pleased to hear that I have not given away Caroline’s dresses, and in fact have altered several of them for myself. I have always favored a dark emerald green, and there is a silk evening dress in exactly that shade that she left me. I do not imagine I will have many occasions to wear it until the war is over, but you did particularly ask me to keep her things for myself. There is also a pink cotton muslin and a silver organdy that will do quite well for me. I dare say you would not have expected, from the simple frocks I wore at Mansion House, that there was a seamstress and designer within your midst? I hope I always conveyed the appropriate amount of propriety in my nursing attire, but how I do love a well-tailored dress, a fine bolt of fabric, a perfectly matched ribbon. These are hardly the times to think of such things, but even so, they give me pleasure and I cannot think there is anything wrong in that. Thank you for urging me to keep those dresses, for they have given me many hours of pleasure in their re-creation.

Yours,

Mary

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City  
July 7, 1863

JED – O RESISTLESS YEARNING – COME TO BOSTON – A WOMAN WAITS FOR YOU – MARY

* * *

 


	8. Three letters and three telegrams

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston  
July 9, 1863

MARY – FURLOUGH GRANTED – ARRIVAL BOSTON 1 AUG – IF AGREEABLE TO YOU – OH WOMAN YOU – JED

* * *

  9 July ‘63

My dearest Mary:

I am grateful for your letter of June 27th, and for your honest account of your life thus far. I had wondered many things about you and still have many questions, but I hope those may be answered in person, as Doctor Summers has granted my furlough. I shall be arriving in Boston on Friday, the 31st of July, and wish to call upon you shortly after. The medical demonstration has been scheduled for the 5th of August, and I must leave for Alexandria again on the 8th.

I want to quell any anxieties you may have had about me telling you I want you not only as my wife, but as the mother of my children. That I do, but I want you as my wife regardless of what may come of our union. My own marriage also was barren, though the cause of that can be more easily ascertained than in your own case: where mutual regard was lacking, it should not surprise you that we had no children. In your instance, however, you cannot be sure where the cause lay, although the fact that your husband was ill for so long, and that you were married less than three years – if I calculate correctly – may also have had some bearing on the outcome. Regardless, do not trouble yourself about it now, for it is you I want above all, and not some future or hypothetical offspring (though I would welcome them and try for them, as I adore children).

Gettysburg, although it is distant, has been a great trouble to us at the hospital, for so many of our men have friends and relatives who were killed in that bloody battle, and no less so for the Confederates among us in Alexandria. You may be happy at the Union’s victory, but it is difficult for me to celebrate the futile end of so many lives. I believe in the Republic and in its preservation – but at what cost? The losses at Gettysburg appear even greater than those at Chancellorsville, and I saw at Mansion House the afterimage of that battle in the limbs we severed, the bodies we sewed together, the blood we let, and the surfeit of bodies in the dead room, in the streets, in the rivers. “If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred,” writes our poet.

   Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they are so cunning in tendon and nerve,  
   They shall be stript, that you may see them.  
   Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,  
   Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant back-bone and neck,   
   flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,  
   And wonders within there yet.  
   Within there runs blood,  
   The same old blood!  
   The same red-running blood!  
   There swells and jets a heart—there all passions,   
   desires, reachings, aspirations…

The body is the conduit for the soul, and without the body, we are only half ourselves. I have not seen battle, but I know what harm it wrecks, and how it destroys men not only in body but also in spirit. The chaplain has much work to do here.

I miss you mightily and cannot wait to see you again. The anticipation of our reunion has been, this week, a great balm to my soul. You are goodness and life itself, and I am in much need of both.

With love,

Jed

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City  
July 11, 1863

JED –THE QUIVERING FIRE THAT EVER PLAYS – EAGERLY AWAITS AUGUST – YOUR MARY

* * *

 July 12

Miss Phinney:

I hope I may address you as a friend, for surely only a friend would have written me as you have done. Thank you for your letter, as it has given me much to think about, and I know not to whom else I might have spoken about my dilemma.

The man I loved as a child comes from a good family, and is well-known in these parts. My parents thought we would marry, and would have welcomed him as a son. But I know Frank to be devious, and jealous besides, and I am not the first to have noticed these things about him. Others have told me as much, if I had chosen to listen to them. But I was very young and thought I was in love, and ignored such counsel, even when it was given to me by Belinda, the woman who nursed me and cared for me since infancy. This war has a strange way of turning the world on its head. She was once our slave, and now she is our servant, and I wonder if she should not always have been so, a free woman. My father believes the Confederacy does not need slavery, and that slavery will be its downfall; more and more, I heed his words.

I believe that Reverend Hopkins is a good man; that much is self-apparent. But as he has not spoken to me of love, I do not know if what I feel for him is shared, and see no way of knowing until he speaks.

But you have given me a place to start, I think, in urging me to consider what I want from marriage. That, too, has changed in this war. I thought I would marry Frank, and be a lady like my mother, whose greatest concern is that our family’s honor and our fine things be maintained. But we come from dust, and to dust we shall return, and what use do I have for such finery now, when my days are spent tending the wounded, and my nights are troubled by spectral dreams? I want to be useful, as you are, as I have been useful here at Mansion House, and I would not be useful in the way I desire were I to lead a life like that of my mother. A minister’s wife would share in her husband’s work, and that now seems like the sort of life that would suit me best, a life of service.

You wrote of the physical side of marriage, and I cannot deny that I find the chaplain pleasing in countenance, but that alone is not what would urge me to marry. I am not yet sure of everything I want from a marriage, but I will heed your advice to ponder it further, before I make any decision.

Doctor Foster tells me he is to travel to Boston on his furlough, to perform a medical demonstration there. Perhaps you might write to him, as I do not know whom else he might know in your city and I am certain he would be glad to see you, should the occasion arise.

Please write to me again. I am in need of female companionship, as my days are so full of men and boys.

Your friend,

Emma Green

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston  
July 15, 1863

MARY – BE NOT ASHAMED WOMAN – YOU ARE THE GATES OF THE BODY – AND YOU ARE THE GATES OF THE SOUL – JED

* * *

 July 17, 1863

My dearest Jed:

How happy I was to get your news of your furlough and travel to Boston. I have thought of little else since, and wish you well on your journey.

I did not mean, by my joy at the Union’s victory at Gettysburg, to ignore the human cost that this War has wrought. But what of the human cost of slavery, which we hope to end with this War? Is that not also a cost to be reckoned with in the final accounting? I too have lost acquaintances and friends in the fighting, and my sister’s husband has had no final word regarding when he might be released. My own life has been upended by this struggle – first, when I decided to travel south to become a nurse, and now, when I’ve returned to Boston to care for my sister’s children. But what is all that to me, if others are to be Free? I know you see things differently than I do, yet I believe we can speak frankly to each other of such matters – yay, we must speak frankly to each other, for what is love if not honesty and clarity? I trust you will not judge me too harshly for this difference of opinion.

Your visit comes at an opportune time; my nephews are to spend most of August at my brother’s farm with their cousins (of which there are seven!), so I will be quite at liberty to assist you at your medical demonstration, and loafe with you, and pass the time in your company. I am sorry that you will not have the opportunity to meet them, given your professed love of children, though I myself am anxious for some time to myself. And then there is the advantage, you see, of my widowed state: I am the lady of the house, and no one will demand a chaperone of me. So come and see me at your will, and we shall spend a very pleasant week together.

Yours, most dearly,

Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where I ask my readers: what think you of a change in the rating of this fic? For an 'M' is what I have in mind in chapters to come.


	9. August 1, 1863. Boston, Massachusetts.

Mary Phinney sat at her vanity and looked herself over one last time. She was pleased, she had to admit, by what she saw in the mirror: Betty had helped brush and plait and roll her hair the night before, and now it was parted neatly off her brow, with dark ringlets trailing behind. She had not worn her hair in such a way since before her husband’s illness, had not had time for such frivolities since then. She fingered the lace at her collar as she contemplated her dress one last time. Fine cotton muslin in a dusky rose, the bodice and corset well-fitting but not too uncomfortable, and, for good measure, a crinoline, silk stockings, and kid boots underneath. No, she had not worn such finery in a long time and, she decided, it suited her. She was reminded of Emma Green, and thought it was just such attire that Miss Green would wear, should a beau come calling.

Betty opened the door. “Shall you be needing anything else, Miss Phinney?” she asked.

Mary turned and smiled at the old woman. “Thank you, Betty, you may go now,” she said. “I'll see you next week.”

“Joe and Mattie—“

“Have arrived safely on the farm. My brother’s wife sent word.”

“And you’re certain you’ll be fine until next Saturday? I can stop in and –“

“Thank you, Betty, you’re very kind, but I’m sure I can manage by myself for a few days.” Mary rose from her chair and handed her some bills. “Here, in case you need anything.”

Betty stood with her hands folded in front of her. “Miss,” she began, “should you – find you – change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Your sister is not far away,” Mary replied. “And you have been working very hard.”

Betty sighed. “Oh, it will be good to spend some time with her, that I’m not complaining. Remember your supper, in the kitchen. Thank you, Miss Mary.” She turned and left. Mary listened to her footsteps padding down the stairs, and then heard the soft sigh of the front door as it closed behind her.

She spent the next few minutes tidying the vanity, putting away the silver brush and stray hairpins, folding up discarded ribbons, setting her jewelry back in its box. Then she left her room, closing the door behind her, and made her way down the stairs to the front parlor.

Late afternoon light was streaming in the windows as she stood before the bookcase, pulling out one book then another, cracking her knuckles, smoothing down her skirts, looking for something to distract her until he arrived. She moved a small table from one side of the room to the other, rearranged the chairs, plumped the cushions on the settee, and sat herself down to wait.

Jedediah had written to her that he loved her, that he wished to marry her, that he was coming to Boston most especially to see her, and now that the moment was almost upon her, she could not keep still. Perhaps it was too much, she thought, the dress and the hair and the little dab of scent at her throat; perhaps it was her austerity he preferred, and would find her too much changed, too doll-like, too precious, too strange. And then she wondered how she would find him – if the grey at his temples had spread, if he were thinner and ragged after so much time working, if she would still find him as pleasing as she had found him at Mansion House.

She re-read his last telegram, sent the day before upon his arrival in Boston (MARY – TO BE SURROUNDED BY BEAUTIFUL CURIOUS BREATHING LAUGHING FLESH IS ENOUGH – I DO NOT ASK ANY MORE DELIGHT – JED), and referred back to her Whitman, seeking out the verses he had copied out. More and more he was quoting “Enfans d’Adam,” and that entire passage awakened in her a desire she had not felt since Gustav’s death and had thought never to feel again. Yet to be fair, she was the one who had started it, with her first citation from that section _(O I willingly stake all, for you!_ ), and he had merely followed her lead, daring to send the verses she would never have dared sent.

   _The man's body is sacred, and the woman's body is sacred,  
   No matter who it is, it is sacred – _ she read.

There was nothing wrong in this, nothing wrong in this longing she felt or in her new determination to follow it to its just end. She was not glad to be a widow, and certainly not glad to have lost Gustav, but she was grateful at this time to know exactly of what the poet wrote, and to have no doubts in her own body and its responses. She was reminded of Emma Green, and did not envy that woman’s innocence, for such innocence would not have known the meaning of what she was to about to propose to Jed, and would have feared it. She was not fearful now, not exactly, but resolute in her purpose, and more than a little anxious about how he would take her suggestion.

She felt the knock rather than heard it; her legs were wooden, they would not move beneath her, and she heard a knock again. The little kid boots felt tight upon her feet as she made her way to the front hall.

When she opened the door, Jedediah was looking down the street, examining the afternoon light on the cobblestones. He turned to her, outstretched his hand towards hers, and then,

“Baroness,” he said gravely.

“ _Mary,_ ” she corrected him with a smile. And then she saw his own, a bright, easy smile that widened as she pulled him inside the house and shut the door. He would not stop looking at her, and when she dropped her hand, he picked it up again and leaned down to brush a kiss on her cheek.

“Mary,” he whispered, still with those eyes, those gleaming eyes, and when he pulled away she grasped both his hands in hers and they stood, for a long while, simply looking at each other.

She noticed, briefly, that he wore a fine cotton shirt and a plum-colored silk vest under his coat. His hair and beard were shorter than she remembered and looked newly trimmed. His fingers were warm in hers and then the next minute they were empty, and she felt his hands at her waist instead, reaching around up her back as he pulled her close to him, his beard tickling her neck. She grabbed his shoulders to steady herself and they stood that way, embraced, for a long minute. How very warm he was, how solid and broad and firm! His breath was sweet at her throat, and she heard him exhale in a shudder.

“Jed,” she whispered, and he turned his face up to hers.

And then they were kissing, slow chaste kisses, lips seeking each other, bodies trembling against each other, and her body remembered this, knew how to do this, and yet this man was entirely new to her, and entirely distinct from what she had known before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to start this way—”

“None of that,” she said with a smile, her hand at his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. “None of that,” she said between kisses. “This is what you came for, is it not?” He laughed and stroked her cheek.

“I came for _you_ ,” he said, kissing her again as he spoke, and when his open mouth reached hers she murmured and gasped and drew him in again. She felt the tingling begin in her fingers, move up her arms and through her shoulders, descend and bloom down her breasts, and she was suddenly aware of how very empty the house was, and how very different this felt from when she had kissed her husband for the first time. She kissed now with the knowledge of what such kisses could lead to, should lead to, what such kisses were for. She felt the familiar openness in her body as her hips settled downwards, outwards, as she reached up to feel his lips again with hers. And then his mouth was on her neck, just where her collar met her jaw, and she couldn’t help the small pants that escaped her, the soft pleasure-noises he invoked in her with his hands spanning her waist and his mouth, his beautiful mouth, nuzzling her neck and her cheeks and coming, once again, to kiss her lips. He urged her mouth open with his own, running his tongue over the corner of her lips and then, as she sighed into him, she met his tongue with hers.

She had moved backwards as they embraced and now felt her spine against the wall as she continued to kiss him openly, fiercely, caught between the cool plaster and the inviting heat of his body. He moaned a little as this new position allowed him to press closer to her—closer, closer – until, panting, he placed his palms on the wall on either side of her face, and touched his forehead to hers.

“Mary,” he said, looking downwards, once he had caught his breath. “I think we should – I mean –“ he looked straight at her and sighed. “What a welcome this is. I had not expected –”

“Hush,” she said, blushing. Now it was her turn to look away, to look upwards. He was still so very close to her and she wished that this did not have to end.

“No,” he said softly, “we must stop.” She closed her eyes and took a ragged breath. “There are things I need to say.”

“I know what you have to say,” she answered boldly, coquettishly, her eyes on his.

“And still I must say it,” he returned, standing back and pulling away. But he grasped her hand in his, saying, “Lead me to your parlor.” She nodded and showed him into the front room, sitting on the settee and motioning for him to do the same. He sat down, instead, in the large chair to her left and moved it closer to her, clasping her hand again. Her skirts billowed between them as he turned and faced her.

“Mary,” he started, “I love you.”

She had read those words before from him and thought she was accustomed to the idea of Jedediah as her lover, but hearing them again, in that serious voice of his, she felt as if she might break.

“Jed—” she responded.

“Mary,” he interrupted. “Let me speak first.” She leaned back against the settee and contemplated him. He was flushed and strung taught as a wire, and still looking at her with those eyes of his. “I love you, and I wish to marry you, if you will have me.”

She smiled at him, encouragingly, still feeling the heat in her chest and that easy openness in her hips, in the slight spread of her legs.

“I want nothing more than to be your husband. I had no other thought in my mind but that when I came to call on you. But—”

“But?” she asked, rather saucily.

“But I’m afraid I got entirely carried away.” She noticed then how his hair was rumpled, and his coat sleeves wrinkled, and smiled to think that they had done that together.

“As did I,” she reminded him. “Jed, I am not –” she paused and squeezed his hand, “—entirely unaware of what may happen between a man and a woman. I have done this before.”

He stared at her. “I have too,” he said, “but not like this. It was different. The courtship was more – restrained.”

“And you think _we_ should be restrained?” She was teasing him now, but he didn’t yet understand.

“I think we should be married,” he stated. “Will you be my wife, Mary?” She contemplated him with a smile.

“Very well, Jedediah Foster,” she said. “I will marry you.”

His chin dropped to his chest and then he looked up. “Thank God!” he exclaimed, kissing her hand.

“But not now, Jed,” she said, most gently. He looked pained.

“Then – why – why ever not? Why not tomorrow – the next day – I’m sure we could find --”

“Jed,” she said, with not some regret, “My life is in Boston. I cannot join you in Alexandria now.”

“Then I will come here.” She looked upon him archly. He wrapped her fingers in his own.

“And give up your commission? Your patients? Your experiments? I would not ask that of you.” She ran her hands over her skirts and pulled at the signet ring on her hand. He stroked her fingers and looked up at her.

“We would not be the first to be separated by this war,” he answered. “We could marry now, and I will join you when I can.”

“No,” she insisted. “I believe we should take this time, these days, to know each other further. And then, when this war is over, or when my sister’s husband returns – whichever comes first – then we should marry.”

“But why so long?” he asked, somewhat desperate.

“Jed,” she said, “I love you. Do not doubt that. I want to be your wife. But consider my position: I already have two children in my charge, and no man to support me. And what if I were to get with child, and you so far away?”

“I would return!”

“And give up your commission?” she retorted.

“Hang the Army,” he swore. “I would be your husband, first.”

They sat in silence for a while. She loosened her hand from his grip.

“I know you would,” she said, “And I love you for it. But please, do as I ask. We should not marry now. Would a long engagement be really so different from what we have now – our correspondence – an occasional furlough?”

He clenched his hands. “I want you as my wife. I love you – I _long_ for you – I long for _us._ ”

“And we are here together, now, dearest Jed. We are here together now. What more do you want?”

He stood and paced, gesticulating with his hands. “So there is to be nothing more? Nothing I can say to convince you?” He looked quite dejected.

She stood and joined him, stilling his hands with her own. She kissed his cheek. “I did not say that. But I would have thought a ‘yes’ would have been quite enough.” He ran a hand over his face, as if to catch his breath, and turned away. “I have not spurned you, Jed,” she remonstrated. “Haven’t I given you what you wanted?”

He stood by the window. “Yes, but—”

She came to stand by his side and took his hand. “Then tell me what you mean.”

He turned towards her. “Mary, I – this – this thing between us. I don’t want it to wait.”

“For what? Is this not worth waiting for?”

“Of course it is!” he said. “But I am in love, and I am weak –”

“Oh, my poor Jed, my dearest,” she whispered. “You do not understand me. Tell me what you want. Tell me as you said it in your letters. Tell me what those verses said, the ones we did not send each other.”

He stared at her. “Do you mean –”

“Yes,” she said, “tell me exactly what you want.” She led him back to the settee, and this time he joined her there. She cradled his head, smoothed his hair, ran her fingers over his beard. He sighed deeply and pulled her onto his lap.

“I want to love you with my flesh – be with you as your husband – and it pains me to be so close to you and be unable to show you my love in that way. To think of so many more months of this – this longing and separation!” She kissed the top of his head.

“You are a clever man, Jedediah Foster,” she reminded him, “and I am a clever woman. I am sure we can find a way through this.” She laughed and he scowled.

“A very long engagement, then?” he asked. “Is that what you have in mind?”

“To start,” she responded. “But when I said you were clever – you are a physician, Jedediah. Surely you can find a way to satisfy our longings without…” she trailed off.

He sat up. “ _Our_ longings?” he asked, hopefully.

“Ours,” she said. “Without –”

“Without…?”

She laughed. “Must I be so very blunt?”

“I am afraid, Mary, that you leave me wholly ignorant and eager for your explanation.”

She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “If you can find a way to love me without getting me with child, then I am entirely, utterly, yours until we marry.”

He grabbed her hands and pushed her off his lap, pinning her against the settee with a kiss. “Is that a challenge?” He kissed her throat and she gasped.

“I think you are finally beginning to understand,” was her reply as she moved under him.

 

 


	10. August 1-2, 1863. Boston.

They kissed for a long while on the settee. Mary’s body felt smaller, more delicate than Jed had remembered, now that she was spread out below him and he could feel the tight span of her waist with his fingers, rub his hands over her arms and neck, urge a leg between her own. He had never seen her so beautiful, flushed and alit with a passion he could hardly believe. How he had longed to touch her like this, to press up close against her, to surprise her with his kisses and caresses! And Mary in the flesh was quite willing, quite eager, and, evidently, quite experienced in the way of pleasure. For only a woman who knew what she wanted could draw him in like that, push up so meaningfully with her hips, smile in that knowing way of hers. It was a wholly unexpected joy to find her so responsive, so willing to please him and be pleased by him.

He recalled, unbidden, how Eliza had pursed her lips tightly when he kissed her, and turned her head away when he reached for her at night after he had returned from Europe. He had not argued with her statement in their divorce papers (how ugly! how unseemly that those things should have been laid out before strangers!), that he had not lain with her in five years. That statement in itself was true enough, but it was not for his lack of trying. 

It pained him to think of Eliza when, underneath him, an incomparable woman arched towards him. He had never evoked such sounds from a woman before, and they were entrancing: Mary’s sudden gasps and murmurs, the rustle of her skirts as she moved under him, the liquid slide of her tongue against his. He felt very loved and very much desired, and hoped she would find him as satisfying as he found her.

And her lips – oh, those kind, generous lips! The way she kissed as if she wanted him, wanted more, wanted him deeper inside her mouth, inside her body. He was driven to distraction by her kisses alone, and felt the familiar hardening within his loins, the sweet pressure seeking its release as they rutted against each other. She did not stop him when he pressed his groin into her leg, in fact she seemed to delight in it, raising her hips to meet his own and shaking against him as they began to rock together. He felt he could spend right there, like the youth he had once been, but –

“Mary,” he said warningly, when he felt her hand on his lower back urging him closer, “Mary –”

She laughed, playful and joyous, and he wanted to always hear her laughing. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked.

“This, and more,” he said with a sigh, removing her hand from his back and pulling away from her. He still lay on top of her, and they stared at each other. Her eyes were moist and he stroked her cheek. “How I love you, Mary,” he said. “But I think – that is, I mean – I –”

“You’re having trouble articulating yourself,” she answered. “Quite unlike you, Doctor Foster.”

“You’ve left me speechless,” he quipped. “But in all seriousness—”

“ _Must_ we be so serious?” And her with her eyes, and that look in them! He wanted to continue, oh how he wanted to keep up this sweet embrace, but he also didn’t want to embarrass himself at the get go.

He sat up, holding her hand against his face, kissing her fingers one by one. “I should leave,” he said. “Before –”

“Don’t leave,” she insisted. “Stay with me. Stay for supper. There’s cold beef in the kitchen – my servant left me a meal. Share it with me.”

“It’s early yet,” he said, “and I should be getting back to my lodgings.” Her eyes flickered.

“You don’t need to leave on my account,” she said.

“Oh, Mary, believe me, it’s entirely on my own account that I need to leave.” But still he gripped her hand in his and would not let it go. She squeezed it back.

“You are too delightful for words, Jedediah,” she answered languorously, “and far too honorable for your own good. Let me propose something else, then. Let us go out and walk together. I will show you Cobble Hill. And then you may go to your lodgings, if that is what you wish, and call upon me tomorrow.”

He hung his head. “Very well.” Oh, how he wished he could stay, how he wished this evening did not have to end! But, as much as he wanted to show her how clever he could be, he wanted to give himself time – to be honest, to give both of them time – to think it over, apart from one another, so that both of them could be perfectly certain of what they were offering to each other.

And so they walked the streets of Cobble Hill for nearly an hour, and they talked of everything but of what had happened between them in the parlor. They talked of Mansion House, and Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, and Lincoln’s proclamation of emancipation. He told her of Aurelia and Samuel, and how happy they were together, how Aurelia had blossomed under Samuel’s sweet affections, and how Samuel had taken to her son like his own. He told her of Hale’s latest ineptitudes and described the new doctor, Doctor MacLean, who was actually a colleague he could count upon. She laughed as he described, from what he could gather, how Miss Hastings was rather too solicitous of a comely young lieutenant from Maine, and how Hale had taken her subsequent rebuffs with sullenness and more than the usual number of amputations. Mary inquired after Emma Green and the chaplain, and he told her how excellent a nurse Miss Green had become, and how much he had come to depend on the chaplain for a Sunday round of chess. In brief, he told her the many details of his life at Mansion House, the details that had not entered into his letters because he had only wished to write her of his love for her .

He asked her to tell him of her life in Boston, and listened eagerly as she spoke of her nephews and her work at the Assistance League, and how fortunate she was to have a servant such as Betty to help her. She told him of her worry for her brother, and her grief at her sister’s passing, and he held her hand as she tried not to cry at the memory. They walked up and down the cobblestones of those old streets, laid down nearly a century before, until they had covered the entire neighborhood on foot and the long summer evening was almost at its end. Then he walked her back to her house and watched as she unlocked the door, bid her farewell with a nod of his head, and returned to his boarding house. They agreed he would call on her the next day, and they would lunch together.

He slept fitfully that night on unfamiliar sheets, every nerve alight with longing and memory. She had more than satisfied him – she had astounded him, at every turn, with her frankness, her open desire for him, her responsiveness to his touch and his words. And this woman was to be his wife! There was no accounting for it. That he, well past youth, would find love again – and such a love! Such a woman! Intelligent, beautiful, well-spoken, gentle and kind, gracious and firm. The war had brought many changes to his life, and none he welcomed more than Mary Phinney.

He thought, too, of what she had suggested – that they be lovers, if he could but assure her that he would not leave her with child. How bold she had been, and how very brave to ask that of him! He admired her courage where he felt himself to be a coward in leaving her alone that night. She had asked him to stay and he, fool that he was, had told her he must go.

But then, upon further reflection, he decided he would ask her again to marry him. He wanted her as his lover, but oh how much sweeter it would be to have her as his wife! If the only thing standing in their way was her fear of getting with child, if she actually thought that in order to be married he would insist on – for lack of a better word – _having_ her, then he must correct that misperception. They had spent a very long time walking through the streets together, and surely one of her neighbors would have seen them together and have wondered at her gentleman caller. They must be more circumspect, he decided. He had promised her in his letters that he would not harm her, and he did not wish for her reputation to suffer on his account. Confound her! Must they play an elaborate game then, of entering and leaving and calling upon each other only in suitable hours? Was he to be deprived of her company at night, when he had so little time in Boston to begin with? Was there nothing he could do to persuade her otherwise?

He called upon Mary at noon the next day. She opened the door to him and he admired her again: her wide eyes, her smile, the neat cut of her blue dress and curve of her waist. She showed him into her dining room, where two places were set across from each other at a long table.

“Meat isn’t so difficult to secure in Boston as it is in Alexandria,” she said as they sat to eat a mutton stew. “And you should know by now that I can manage even the most meager kitchen,” as a way of explanation.

Gone was the quick intimacy of the night before; in its place were the studied rituals of dining, the formal manners he was accustomed to from his mother’s table. They spoke again of Mansion House, and she inquired after his family. He told her the little he knew – that Ezra was still a prisoner, that his mother still blamed him for Ezra’s lost leg, and what’s more, had decided to blame him for the elopement of her servant, Miles.

“I have no idea where the boy went,” he admitted. “Didn’t even know he was gone. She called him her ‘second son’ in her last letter to me. So now I am to be entirely excluded from the family, and a runaway slave has taken my place.” He didn’t mean to sound bitter, but he couldn’t help himself.

“It's not your fault, Jed,” Mary answered. “You did the best you could.”

“Which still wasn’t enough,” he said.

“Has it ever been enough?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her over his stew. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “I’ve never been enough for her. Never the kind of son she wanted. Ezra was more her type: obedient, respectful, conventional. I had no interest in the running of the plantation – I’d seen well enough what that entailed, when I was a child. I didn’t want that responsibility or that burden.”

“How did you come to medicine?” Mary asked. “It seems an unusual choice for one in your -- position.”

“My parents wanted me to attend university,” he answered. “My father, especially, had always regretted that he didn’t further his schooling. He was a bit of an intellectual, an autodidact, but he wanted Ezra or me to pursue a university education. I was the obvious choice: the first son, the more academically inclined. I completed a course in general studies at the University of Maryland, and then I applied for their medical college.”

“But why medicine?” Mary pressed. “Why not law or the clergy, or why not simply take your degree and return home to manage the plantation?”

“That was the original plan,” he admitted. “But I can be _very_ convincing.” He smiled at her. “I always liked biology – it started with botany, and cataloguing the birds and animals on our estate in the style of Linnaeus when I was just a boy. I kept notes on the things I saw from year to year – the weather, the conditions, things like that – and my father found these very helpful when it came to deciding what to plant, and when, and where. So he encouraged my interest in it. And then in university, when I had my first courses in biology and human anatomy – something changed for me. I wanted to know more. Plants and animals were all very well, but there seemed to be no end of questions to be answered in medicine.” She listened, attentive, and did not interrupt him. “So I completed medical school, and then pursued my clinical training, first in Baltimore and Boston, and then abroad. I went to France three times, studied with Charcot at the Salpêtrière, and later with Broca at the University of Paris. Trained in Germany, too. Neurology was my specialty; I worked with the insane, the brain-injured, the melancholic. With Broca I explored the possibility of hypnosis as an anesthetic; that is also when my experiments with morphine began.” He grew silent, remembering how she had found him once in that state of semi-bliss and divine forgetfulness. Had he been singing? Had she really entered his quarters, all alone?

“So you truly are a man of science,” she said. “A scholar in addition to a doctor.”

He nodded. “It took me longer to become accustomed to my patients. To see them as people, when they had been bits of anatomy and hypotheses at first. I was not always a good doctor, though I have always been a good scientist.”

“What changed?” she asked.

He kicked a leg out in front of him. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked her, pulling out a slim cigar.

“Not at all, she said,” rising to fetch him an ashtray.

He settled back with his cigar. “There wasn’t one moment when I became a doctor,” he said. “It happened over time. The more patients I saw, the more desperate their cases, the more I came to care for them. And that’s when it becomes dangerous, when you begin to care too much.” He took a deep puff of his cigar and looked at her.

“I have never doubted you cared,” she answered. “Is that why you told me to – to not become too attached to the deserter? Had that happened to you?”

He paused before answering. “Not in the same way. The situation didn’t remind me of a family member, if that’s what you mean. But I have had patients I cared about, cared about more than was strictly necessary, and then when they died…” he trailed off. “Morphine had its uses,” he said in a clipped voice.

“I am so sorry, Jed,” Mary said.

“’ ‘You can’t save them all,’ ” he retorted. “That’s what my father always said.”

“You seem very fond of him.”

“I was. Except when he was telling me how to be a good doctor.” They sat in silence together, and then Mary rose to clear the dishes. She was some time in the kitchen, and when she returned she brought out a tray with coffee.

He let her serve him, and then he broached the subject that had been on his mind.

“Mary,” he began, “I have been thinking of what you offered yesterday.” She looked downward, slightly flushed. Was it the bright light of the day that made her blush, when the night before she had been all eagerness? She looked at him and he continued. “Your offer – to be my lover – it was very bold of you.”

“Pardon me my boldness—“ she began, and then stopped when she saw his face.

“But I will say again what I said before: I want you as my wife.” Oh, the look on her face! The sweet pleasure of seeing her blush again! “I want you _first_ as my wife,” he explained. “And I wonder if there isn’t some other reason you want to wait, if you are prepared to give so much to me,” he finished.

“Oh, Jed,” she said, “I _do_ want to be your wife – I _will_ marry you. But can’t you see that now is not the time?”

“I don’t agree,” he answered curtly. “We’re in the middle of a war, that’s true, but can’t you see that’s all the more reason to marry now? What if – God forbid – something were to happen to me, and you were left alone again?”

“I have my own income,” she responded.

“And what of your good name?” he countered. “Mary, be realistic – half of Cobble Hill have seen you and me walking together, and they will know that you are all alone in this house, entertaining male visitors.”

“I’m hardly entertaining _visitors,_ ” she said. “I’ve had just you to call.”

“I reckon I’m visitor enough for the busy bodies at their windows,” he said with a sigh. “But, truly, tell me: is your only fear that you will get with child? For if that’s the matter, I can promise—”

“But _can_ you promise that? Can you promise that, once I’m your wife, you won’t want to have me as your wife? Can you promise that you won’t – that is – that you won’t—” her voice trailed off.

“What you have asked of me as your lover, I would promise you as your husband,” he said. “I will not get you with child. But I also won’t leave you here with your reputation in tatters, and me well on my way back to Virginia.” He stopped, then more slowly, “You should have your servant back to stay with you. You should not be here alone, much less alone with me.”

“And if I want to?” she asked.

“Even if you want to – even if _I_ want to. We should not be here alone together, when you are without a chaperone.”

“I’m hardly a young girl!” she insisted, now with some fury in her voice. He came around the table, knelt by her side and took her hands in his. Looking up at her, he noticed the tears in her eyes. “Oh sweet Mary,” he whispered. “I do not mean to distress you.” She looked away. “I do not mean to scorn what you have offered me, so openly and so freely.” They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. “But please – consider again: will you marry me now, so that we can love each other without hiding, without shame?”

“I am not ashamed,” she said. “But I see now that you are.” He hung his head.

“No, Mary, never that,” he responded. “But please—” he was begging now, and they both knew it. “Please, Mary.”

“We can’t get married now,” she said. “There isn’t time for a license.”

“I’m in the Army,” he countered. “There are special dispensations for cases such as these, in times of war. We could be married today, if you like. Or tomorrow.” He considered her hands in his, hopeful, waiting.

“May I think on it?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “Think on it, and let me know what you decide. But tell me again, truly – is there any other reason you do not want to marry now?”

“What other reason could there be?” She spoke slowly, and he realized she had begun to cry.

“Oh sweet Mary, oh my darling,” he said, standing and pulling her up into his arms. He held her tightly to him. “Do not worry about that. If I can refrain from getting you with child as your lover, I most certainly can do so as your husband.” She clung to him, and he held her closely.

“If we--,” she began, “—if we _were_ to be married, I would need Betty – and oh! My nephews – I have sent them away.”

“You and I would be married in an Army chapel,” he explained. “It would not be the wedding you might hope for. There will be witnesses, but none of your family.” _Or mine,_ he thought to himself.

“I’ve already had a wedding,” she said between tears. He touched her moist cheek and looked to her before he kissed her, softly, on the lips.

“And it won’t be much of a marriage,” he admitted, “at least to start. You are right – I would be far away, and could only return on furlough.”

“And could I not – could I not visit you, in Alexandria?” she asked, hopeful.

“I would hope you would, most certainly,” he said. “I could think of nothing better.”

“Let me think on it,” she said, pulling back. But he sensed, in the tension that had gone from her body, that she had already made her decision.

“In the meanwhile,” he said, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it, “we might spend some time talking of the medical demonstration.”

“Medical demonstration?” she repeated, almost confused.

“My purported reason for being in Boston,” he reminded her.

She laughed. “Oh, yes, that reason. You know, Miss Green wrote to me to tell me you were coming.”

“She did?” He was astonished. “How did she know we—”

“She didn’t,” Mary answered. “She just – she thought it would be a good thing if you had a friend in this city. She imagines you all alone in Boston with nary a friend in the world.”

He laughed. “Oh sweet Lord—so you are to be my friend in Boston?”

“If you will have me,” she said. And then he could not help but kiss her again.


	11. August 2-3, 1863. Boston.

Jed went back to his lodgings soon after, with the promise that he would call again in the evening if her servant would return. Her kissed her inside the hall before he left – gently, deliberately – and told her again to think of what he had asked her. And then he was gone, and Mary was alone again in the big house, with the afternoon stretching before her and a sudden feeling of bereftness.

Mary donned an apron to wash the dishes and tidy up the kitchen, then wrote a note to Betty. She made herself presentable again and went out to the street to look for a messenger. It took some time before she saw one of those jack-about-town youths, lounging against a lantern post and offering to run an errand for her. She paid him in coin, passed him the note, and returned to her house to wait for Betty.

Mary felt her eyes drooping as she sat in the parlor to read the day’s news, and she retired to her room to sleep. She had spent half the night awake and now, after Jed’s visit, she only wished to rest.

The old woman returned several hours later through the kitchen entry. “Miss Mary,” she called out, awakening her. “Miss Mary!” Betty climbed the stairs and knocked at her door. “I’m back,” she said.

“Come in, Betty,” Mary replied, rising from her bed. Her servant stood at the door, her hands folded in front of her, waiting. “Thank you for coming. I’m so sorry to disturb your visit with your sister.”

“How can I be of assistance?” Betty asked.

Mary hesitated. “I will have a caller tonight. Doctor Foster – I have told you of him – he has come to Boston and he will be visiting. I need you to prepare us a supper and help me to dress. Then I need you to spend the night.” She paused. “Will you have enough time to go back to your sister’s and bring a few things?”

Betty nodded to a satchel in her hand. “I brought my things,” she answered. “What else I have is already here.”

“Good,” Mary said. “I am so sorry to trouble you about this.”

“Not at a trouble at all, Miss Mary. Just let me see what’s in the pantry and what I need to fetch from the market. What dress will you wear?”

“The gray organdy,” Mary said. “It’s clean, but I think it needs to be pressed.” Betty nodded. Mary felt as if she should say more. “Doctor Foster lunched with me today,” she admitted. “He wants me to marry him.” Betty’s eyebrows rose.

“And will you?”

“Yes, I will,” Mary said firmly, “but I haven’t yet decided when.”

“Best make it soon,” her servant said. “I don’t hold with long engagements. They only bring trouble.” Mary smiled at her. “And you like this Doctor Foster?” Betty asked.

“Very much,” she answered. “You know we have been corresponding.” She blushed.

“I had noticed,” Betty said drily. “Well, you’ll know what’s best. I had better be attending to the supper, now. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Thank you, dear Betty,” Mary said.

“Think nothing of it,” the older woman answered. “Only – ” she paused.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Betty said with a shake of her head. “Only that I hope he knows what a fortunate man he is.”

Mary blushed again. “Thank you, Betty.”

“Not at all,” and she turned to go.

Mary went to the basin and splashed cool water on her face. Then she sat at her vanity and began to take down her hair, loosening the plaits and running her brush through them. She remembered how Gustav had liked to watch her brush her hair at night, how he had gazed at her from their bed as she prepared herself to join him. Jed was right, she reflected: this would be a very different sort of marriage, and in many respects. Gustav was cool and measured while Jed was all heat and rhythm, despite his obvious attempts to slow things down and take things at their pace. Gustav had been so reserved, so self-contained – many times, she had wished he would confide in her, tell her more of himself. She did not doubt that he loved her, but he had rarely spoken of such things, assuming, rather, that they were a given. He had not told her, at first, when he had begun to feel pain, and it was she who had insisted he see a doctor. She wondered what other things he had held back from her, and was saddened to remember that she would never know.

Jed, on the other hand, had let her see all of him, from the very beginning. He had not shied away from telling her of his political views, or his opinions on how Union and Rebel patients should be treated (all the same), had not even shied from letting her help him quit his dependence on morphine. She had wiped his face, brought water to his lips, held him in front of a bowl as he vomited, and let him sag into her arms afterwards. He had allowed her to remove his vest and cravat and tuck him into his bed with little concern for what she might think of him. His concern and his shame came later, when he was almost mended and champing at the bit to return to his rounds. Then he had cried most piteously, and asked her to leave. And though his shame made him taunt her, accusing her of enjoying his misery, she knew that he was grateful to her by the way he acted towards her afterwards, how he had sought her out on the wards, stood by her side at clinical meetings, stopped by her patients to see how they were getting on, grabbed her arm and called her by her Christian name. Jed had already let her see so much more of himself than Gustav would have allowed, and she admired him for it.

And then, too, Jed had wanted to know more of herself, and Mary found that all the more touching – how he asked after her family, how he wanted to know about her life in Boston, how he seemed to want to know everything about her. Gustav had not had that curiosity. It was not that he was inattentive, but rather that he acted as if he already knew all there was to know of her. She had not realized how much she had needed someone to push her to express exactly what she meant and why, someone to listen to her, someone to treat her as a mystery and not as a foregone conclusion.

It was painful to reflect on the parts of her marriage that she had found wanting – it contradicted the story she had told herself since Gustav had died, of a perfect partnership tragically cut short by his death. But in their ease in living together, in his readiness to adapt to her habits, she had not known what it was like to articulate her own needs and views. Gustav never questioned her judgment, never argued with the direction she took, and that, in itself, she now viewed as a flaw. With Jed it had been all challenge from the start, when he had tested her abilities as a nurse, questioned her moral views, told her she was quite forward in mistrusting Doctor Hale. And in the face of his questions Mary had found herself taking a stand, becoming firmer in herself and in what she believed, and at the same time yearning to show him that she was an able nurse. It was because he had seemed to look down upon her that she felt emboldened to prove him wrong and had, over time, looked forward to their verbal sparring, anticipated his next moves, and sought to put him in his own place. His place, she reflected, which was now to be at her side. If it was difficult to work with him at first, so she imagined it would be difficult, at times, to be married to a man such as he. But she was tired of ease and complacency, and she had decided to accept his offer of marriage because something in that struggle between them was exciting to her, aroused her best and worst instincts, and she felt she could be perfectly herself, entirely imperfect and human, around Jedediah Foster.

She did not now doubt that she would accept his proposal and marry him the very next day, if it were really so easy. She smiled as she imagined how he would respond to her decision, knowing how delighted she would make him with it. He was so very easy to please, and it gladdened her to no end that she was the one who made him drop his stern demeanor and let forth some of the boy he must have once been: eager, idealistic, and playful.

At six o’clock that evening he knocked at her door, and Betty went to answer. She showed him into the parlor, where Mary sat in her silver dress and demurely set aside the book she was reading. She rose and asked him to sit. He took a chair near hers as Betty left the room. Oh, how fine he looked that evening! – with a blue silk vest and a matching cravat, the same trim jacket and trousers. How _did_ one behave, with one’s servant setting the table and one’s lover before her, still with those dark, gleaming eyes, still so eager for her company? She reached for his hand. “I am glad to see you, Jedediah,” she began.

“Mary –” he started, but she interrupted him.

“I have given it some thought,” she began. “Your suggestion that we be married right away.” She paused and looked at him. He had not taken his eyes from her and oh! how grave he looked! how manly! She felt, at that moment, all of the power she had over him to determine their happiness in these few days, and she was satisfied with her answer. “If we can be married tomorrow, then let it be so,” she concluded. And then he was standing up and bringing her up with him into that broad embrace of his, holding her close to him and stroking her back and he whispered,

“You have made me so very happy, Mary Phinney.” She laughed. “I’ll see that you don’t regret it.”

“You had better,” she said. “But really, Jed – what other choice could I have made?”

“A great many other choices,” he said in a somber tone. “And none of them would have done for me, though I would have honored your choice.”

“I know you would have,” she replied, “and that is why I made it.” She drew back slightly from him, smiled again, and kissed his lips. She didn’t care if Betty came back, she didn’t care if he still thought her bold. She had made her decision and would stand by it. “But now,” she began, “the details. When can it be done?”

“Tomorrow, if you wish,” he answered quickly. “I have spoken with the chaplain—” she raised an eyebrow at him, “and I’ve brought the necessary documents on my end.” She looked to him for an explanation. “My identification, and my divorce papers,” he admitted. “And then you must bring identification, as well as certification of your husband’s death, and the chaplain will provide us with two witnesses. It can be done tomorrow as early as we wish – say, eleven o’clock? Will that give you enough time?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly, “I usually haven’t risen by that hour.” He gaped at her and she laughed again. “Of course that time will suit me. You will come to fetch me in the morning, then, and we will go together?”

“Nothing would please me more,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Oh, you don’t know what hopes of mine you have fulfilled, Mary! What longings!—”

“Don’t say that until we’re married,” she answered in a soft tone. “Who knows but that I may fail to satisfy.”

“You could not, Mary,” he declared. “You are already quite enough.” And then they drew apart and she went first into the dining room, where Betty waited with their meal. Once seated, she dismissed her servant and nodded at Jed across the table. “At this time tomorrow,” she said, “we will be married. And you can leave your lodgings and come here to be with me.” He gaped at her. “And we will be very happy – I know we will.”

He left soon after the meal, pleading exhaustion and a long walk back to his lodgings, but she knew he left because he could not stay as he had done before, not with Betty at the house with her and with their wedding impending. He kissed her check as she paid him farewell in the hall, held the door open for him and watched him walk away before turning back.

She joined Betty in the kitchen and helped her to put away the dishes.

“So _that_ was the doctor,” Betty harrumphed. Mary laughed – she could not stop laughing, it seemed.

“That was _my_ doctor,” she answered. “We are to be married tomorrow.”

“Oh, hallelujah!” Betty said. “He seemed like the type who wouldn’t want to wait.”

“No, he knows what’s good for him, and so do I,” Mary answered. “We’ll be married in an Army chapel in the morning, and then he will join me here.”

Betty looked at her sharply. “Will you want me to be leaving, then?” Mary reddened.

“If it’s not too much bother, it would be a great help if you would prepare our meals, and return to your sister’s house at night.”

“As you wish.” Betty busied herself with the stove and Mary was grateful that the other woman could not see her face. So they were to be alone together, entirely alone, and married! There was something else she wanted from Betty.

“Betty—” she began. “It would also be very – very useful if you could let slip to my neighbors’ servants, and anyone else you may come across who knows me, that I am to be married tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t want those tongues wagging,” Betty said gruffly.

“Indeed,” Mary answered.

* * *

 

Jedediah called upon her the next morning, and this time it was she who opened the door to him. He was in his Army uniform and cap, looking quite regal and again so very grave. She wore a white print dress covered in tiny red flowers, and had pinned a pink rose to her chest. He smiled at her and took her arm.

They walked over together to the Army chapel and Mary waited on a bench while Jed spoke with the clerk. Then he joined her and they sat waiting, hand in hand, until their names were called.

“There’s still time to change your mind,” he whispered.

She brought a gloved hand to her mouth. “Jed!” she exclaimed, almost horrified.

“Well, then, let’s go in,” he replied, pulling her up as they walked in together.

The ceremony was brief and to-the-point; the witnesses were a few clerks who looked rather bored by the whole affair, and the chaplain spoke in a sing-song voice that jarred the ears. But Jed was resplendent, his head held high and firm, and he did not waver when he repeated the vows after the chaplain. She found her own voice quavering, and wondered at it. How many other women had been married here before a loved one was shipped off to battle, with little hope of seeing their husbands again? At least she was fortunate that Jed was not a soldier, though she had little idea of when she might see him again. And yet it was the right thing to do, and she was happy to look upon him immediately afterwards and think, _This man is my husband._ She had never thought she would be glad to be married again, and still her heart was bursting with a feeling she had not known before – was it anticipation? Love? Joy? -- or all these things at once?

He did not kiss her then, but once they had left the building and turned the corner, he turned and brought her hand to his mouth, removing her glove to press his lips to his fingers. And then he brought his hand to her cheek, and she felt her heart beating so loudly she thought he might hear. “My wife,” he whispered, and leaned forward to gently kiss her mouth. Just that one kiss, and then they were off again, walking back to her house together.

She couldn’t help but keep glancing at him as they walked, and she noticed him doing the same. “Oh, Jed!” she cried. “What a wonderful thing we have done!”

“The very best thing,” he agreed, squeezing her hand. “Thank you so much, Mary, for – for –”

“Don’t you thank me,” she answered. “I am just as happy as you are.”

They arrived back at her house and dined upon the luncheon Betty had left them. Jed regaled her with more stories of Mansion House, and she laughed with giddiness not so much for the stories he was telling, but for the pleasure of sitting across from him again and watching him speak. This man was her husband – she could tell him anything, ask anything of him, and she found him so entrancing, so astonishing. Had they really only known each other for a year? Had they really just promised themselves to each other that morning?

And so, when the meal was over and after she cleared the dishes, she came over to where he sat and kissed him, firmly, on the lips. He pushed the chair back and pulled her onto his lap, and then they were kissing again, fervently, meaningfully, and she made him stand so that she could feel his arms around her again.

“I love you,” she said softly, and heard him take his breath. “And now, I think, it is time we went upstairs.” And then how he looked at her! How he took her face in his hands, and kissed her again – her lips, her cheeks, her neck – and let her lead him to her bedroom.

“How do you want to begin?” he asked, when the door was shut fast behind them. His consideration moved her, and she responded by kissing him again, her hands at his neck, drawing him in closer. The feel of his hands on her waist was heavenly; he stroked her ribs, spanned her waist with his fingers, then wrapped his arms entirely around her back. “How do you want this?” he repeated. “Tell me, Mary, I will—”

“I want this uniform off,” she said. “Do you think I can help you with that?” Her hands paused on his buttons before opening them, one by one. She could feel him trembling as she pulled his jacket off his shoulders and draped it over a chair. In his shirtsleeves he felt so much warmer, so much closer to her, and she reached again for his mouth. He grabbed her forearms and stilled her.

“Mary,” he said. “Remember what I promised. We cannot—that is—we cannot be together as we might wish.”

“I think this is quite enough for today,” was her response. “And now, Jed – help me with my buttons?” She went to her vanity to look for the buttonhook and brought it to him, turning so that he could unfasten the long row of buttons at her back. He took care as he opened her bodice, pausing to dip and kiss the small of her neck when it was revealed to him. His mouth was hot on her spine as he slowly drew her arms out of the sleeves, then moved to place the bodice on the chair with his jacket. He returned to her and she felt his hands on her corset, resting on her hip bones as he bent to kiss her neck again. And then his fingers were at her hair, loosening her hair pins so that her long locks fell down.

“You have such beautiful hair,” he said, running his fingers through it, undoing the plaits that Betty had set. “You are so beautiful, Mary,” he whispered. “I would very much like—” he cut himself off.

“What would you like, Jed?” she asked, turning and looking at him. He hung his head and looked up at her.

“I would very much like to see you – all of you. May I?” She nodded and he reached for the fastening at her skirts. She helped him to pull them down and then turned and stood before him in her chemise and corset and petticoats, and reached herself for the stays on her petticoats, pulling them down as well so that she stood before him in her drawers. Then she grabbed for the fastening at his trousers, her hands trembling as she sought the buttons, noticing already his eagerness to be with her. He stepped out of his trousers and she saw his legs, pale and covered with dark hairs; he was so finely built, so masculine, so very different from herself. She led him to the bed then and brought him to lay down upon her. Had it always felt so sweet, to be thus entwined with a man? Had it always been so maddening, this layer of clothes still between them, this heat in her belly and this tingling in her breasts? He kissed her again, fiercely, rapturously, and she grabbed at his buttocks and rubbed the back of his calf with her own. He was moaning now and so was she, panting and moaning and grasping at him, wishing to God that this was truly their wedding night and knowing, trusting, that it would not go that far. But only to be closer – to be close enough – to feel his arms around her and his skin on hers!

“Turn over,” he commanded, “so I can rid you of this damned corset.” And then she was on her stomach and she felt his knees locking her hips in place as he worked at the laces. When he had removed the corset he fell upon her again, kissing her neck, turning her face towards his so that he could kiss her lips. And then he ordered her up again, onto her knees, and he reached forward under her chemise and ran his fingers up her bare ribs.

When his fingers met her breasts she let out a gasp. His hips were pressed against her bottom, and those long fingers of his were cupping her breasts, running over her nipples, urging her towards completion with their touch alone. She arched her neck and sought his mouth with her own; he kissed her and continued to play with her nipples, stroking and circling them until she was panting and haggard beneath him. Then he reached to pull her chemise off, and she turned and fell back onto the bed, looking up at him. He removed his own shirt as well and she noticed how sinewy his arms were now, how thin and wiry he had become after so many months of war. But she loved his body, loved the way he was kissing her, touching her breasts again with his hands, loved the way he watched for her reaction and then bent his head to take a nipple in his mouth.

She closed her eyes and let the sensation take over her completely. His hot mouth was at her chest and his fingers were at her navel, then dipping lower to pull down her drawers. He shed his own just as quickly and covered her with his body. The feeling of his skin on hers was incomparable – the warmth, the moving pulse within him, the rub of the hairs on his chest against her breasts, the hard part of his pressed up against her leg – and she urged him closer with her arms and with her mouth. He cried out when she took him in her hand and stroked him gently. Oh, how beautiful he looked, how entirely overcome he was! His penis was full and very hard and she looked down to admire it, noticing how dark the hairs of his groin were, how his penis stood out against them, bare and swollen. He felt so very silken in her hand, and she remembered how to do this, did not feel ashamed to be touching him like this, for he was her husband now and this was what she wanted, what he wanted, and there was nothing wrong in that. But he pulled her hand away gently, saying, “Wait, Mary. I want to see you,” and then sat up upon the bed and looked down at her spread out before him.

Now she knew, she thought, what his patients must feel when he directed his full attention at them. Or, rather, how _she_ felt when he did the same, for she doubted he had caused this effect in any of the men in his care. But his studied gaze, his roaming eye – those she recognized from his clinical work, that swift visual accounting of what was and what was to be.

“I could hardly have imagined you to be so beautiful,” he said at last, touching the birthmark on her thigh. She felt herself redden, felt the heat rise in her chest, felt the familiar moistening between her legs as he slowly spread her knees open. With one hand he reached for a nipple and with the other he brushed the hair over her pubis, kissing her mouth all the while. He pulled her close to him and she felt his fingers descend further, grazing her inner thigh, teasing another sigh out of her as she closed her eyes and fell further into the mattress. He seemed surprised and pleased by the wetness between her legs; when his fingers touched her there, he looked up at her and smiled.

“This is all right?” he asked. She laughed, joyously.

“Quite all right,” she assured him, reaching down again to take him in her hand. His fingers brushed her folds and she widened her legs suggestively, throwing her head back as he sought out that one perfect spot in her body, the center of all pleasure and source of all things, and softly began to rub over it. Still she felt herself growing wetter as she lifted her hips against his hand, urging him on with the motions in her body and –

“Don’t stop!” she said, when he stilled his hand and gazed at her.

“Oh, Mary,” he said with a shudder, “If you only know what you do to me—”

She gripped his penis more firmly and laughed in his ear. “The same you are doing to me, Jed. Can’t you see that I enjoy this?”

Now it was his turn to chuckle, and she was relieved to hear the ease in his voice. “I don’t mean to stop,” he warned her. “Not until—”

“Don’t you stop,” she replied, but his fingers continued their slow, soft circles over that tender part of hers, and she felt the circles expand outwards, up into her hips, her stomach, her breasts, until her very mouth was tingling with the sensation and she pulled him close for another kiss.

She came with a cry, more quickly than she had remembered, and he kept circling her with his fingers, gently now, but still pulling her upwards and outwards, until she came again and felt the pleasure spread out to her buttocks, her knees, the tip of her nose and her cheeks. She came down slowly, his hand rubbing against her with the gentlest of touch, eking out those last waves of pleasure and leaving her entire body aglow. Her legs and arms felt weak; her fingers and toes were not her own, tingling and fiery as she shuddered again and again, and arched against the bed and sought out his mouth, messily pressing it against her own. Then in the aftershocks of her climax she began to tremble, and to feel the tears fill her eyes. She clutched at him and sobbed his name. He ran his hands over her stomach, her breasts, her face, soothing her with his voice even as she pulled him closer to her, choking and gasping at the pulses that still remained, still carrying her outwards, downwards, closer to him.

“Oh how I love you,” she said in his ear, but already she felt the languor in her body, and reminded herself that he had not spent yet. But he appeared content to hold her and kiss her and whisper sweet things to her, and her body kept leaping up towards his in the desire to further their union.

She had not felt this way before; had not, to be specific, felt her entire body so alight and so willing, as if he had not merely touched her between her legs but had touched all of her, all at once, and had so brought her to her peak. It took a long time for her to fully come down from her climax, the spasms still running through her as he continued to stroke her and bless her with his hands, his tongue, his words. “Dear Mary,” he said, “Sweet Mary,” and then, “Jesus – are you always this way?”

“I have never been quite this way before – this is different,” she admitted, gasping; though she had often felt pleasure in joining with Gustav, her pleasure had been more contained, not nearly so – so universal, so all-encompassing.

“I love you,” he responded, kissing her gently and stroking her shoulder. “You are so beautiful this way, to me.” She shook and trembled again at his words.

“And you, Jedediah?” she asked. “ I would return the favor.”

“You cannot do so,” he answered. “For I am a man, and we men are – rather more limited in the way of pleasure.” But still she sought him out with her hand and wrapped her fingers tightly around him, delighting in his moans as she felt another tremor pass within her.

She sat up on the bed now, pulling him up with her, and looked down upon him, erect and willing for her touch.

“What a wondrous thing is man,” she sighed. “What pleasure contained within.” She smiled cheekily at him. He kissed her mouth and fondled her breasts again, and she moved closer into his touch while reaching again for his penis.

“Do you know what I like about men?” she asked.

“No,” he said, with a gasp.

“How very straightforward they are,” she said. “How very obvious they are in their affections. I can tell, for instance” – as she moved her hand up and down him, “—how very much you enjoy my touch.” She watched her hand move over his foreskin, watched the sudden revelation of his penis from its cover, and wanted suddenly to kiss him there, though she had never had such a thought before. His face grew tight as he answered her.

“Your body is not entirely opaque to me,” he said. “The heat – the wetness – the sounds you make—”

“And yet nothing equals _this_ ,” she said, gripping him firmly, her fist moving upwards from its base and then, softly, her fingers upon its head. “Nothing shows so obviously the signs of pleasure.” She maneuvered him onto his back and straddled him, her hand still upon him, and began to kiss his mouth. He cried her name and shook underneath him, and she was satisfied to see the tension beginning in his arms and neck, the exaggerated arch of his body as he leaned into the bed and she continued to stroke him with her hands.

Now she alternated, first her right hand, then her left, noticing how he bit his lip and pawed at the sheets as she continued to work him firmly and steadily towards his completion. He was so precious to her in those moments, so bare and so revealed, and oh how she wished she could raise her hips upon his, and sink deeply onto him in these aftermoments of her own pleasure, feel him enter her and touch her breasts, her cheeks, her shoulders as he came. But though she longed to know him in that way, and anticipated it even, she still knew that they could not yet join together, not while this war was still looming and he about to return to Virginia. And so she took exquisite care to stroke his penis, and tell him she loved him, and work him into the state of frenzy she had so often imagined from him, until he began to shoot those gleaming, white jets of release onto his stomach, her thighs, her hands, as she opened her mouth to his and sucked his tongue. She felt his hands again upon her waist, descending to her buttocks as he spread her wide and shook against her, still pulsing, still releasing himself as he had promised to do – outside of her, between the two of them, wholly visible and wholly accountable.

He clung to her and she stroked his hair, kissed his temple, and then reached out a hand to the flannel at her basin, rubbing it over his stomach and then hers, cleaning the both of them of his emissions and soothing him with her touch. She fell back upon him, their legs and armed entwined, and he grabbed her head and kissed her again and again, until he had calmed down from his release and only wished to hold her closely, just so, with their loins joined close together and their lips attached.

They both fell into a deep sleep afterwards, the sweet sleep of satisfied sex and union, and did not rise until nearly four o’clock, with the sound of the church bells and the soft amber light of the afternoon reaching their window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter out earlier today, and am sorry for the East Coasters who likely won't see it until tomorrow, but something in me just didn't want to wait and post this chapter on a Sunday morning before church.
> 
> And now, I hope someone else will join me in the M+ ratings category for this pairing (BroadwayBaggins?), though I am also content to keep up the rating, now that I have begun.
> 
> Emma


	12. August 3, 1863. Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been traveling this past week and haven't been able to devote much time to writing.
> 
> In principle I don't believe in trigger warnings, but....this chapter is more sensitive than most. Read with care.

“I brought something for you, Mary,” Jed said later, in the soft light of dusk.

“Something else?” she murmured.

“I haven’t given you anything yet,” he said. She rolled over towards him and touched his cheek.

“You have given me quite enough, Jedediah,” she answered.

He rose naked from the bed and moved across the room. He reached into the pocket of his coat and brought her a small fabric bag, tied shut with a velvet ribbon, before sliding back into bed with her.

He saw her weighing the ring’s heft before she drew it out of the bag. The stone was large, and of a color she said she had rarely seen before: a bright yellow verging on orange, and set in yellow gold. Jedediah took the ring from her and placed it on her finger.

“I guessed at the size,” he admitted. “You have such delicate hands.”

“It fits perfectly,” she said in a low voice. “But it is altogether too fine for me.” She moved her fingers back and forth, watching the ring catch the dying light.

“It is yours,” he said simply.

“Wherever did you get such a treasure?” she asked. “What is the stone?”

“Ah, now _that’s_ a story,” he said, lying back on the sheets, holding her close to him and taking her hand in his. They both looked at the ring. “It’s called topaz,” he explained.

“Topaz?”

“A Brazilian stone.” He smiled. “It was my grandmother’s – my father’s mother. She was from Brazil.” She turned over to look at him and he rubbed the soft flesh of her back, watched the soft sway of her breasts as she turned on her side towards him.

“What a curious tale,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “It is. She was a Mulatta – free-born, as so many in Brazil are, and from a wealthy family. They owned gold mines in a place called Ouro Preto – still do, in fact.”

Mary stared at him in surprise. “However did your grandfather meet her?”

“He was a sea captain, and his routes often brought him to Rio de Janeiro. She was living there with an uncle, and they met at a ball. They were married there, and she came back with him to Baltimore.”

“Did he carry slaves?” she asked. “His ships, I mean?”

He narrowed his eyes. “No,” he answered slowly, “Virginia tobacco for Brazilian coffee and timber. But slave goods all of them, I suppose.”

“How did your family take it?” she asked. “Him marrying a Negress?”

“She had enough of the Portuguese in her to pass as European. Needless to say, they kept it a secret – Foster name, and all that.” He looked side-eyed at her. “I found out when I was sixteen. My mother was angry with my father, and she let it slip in a moment of rage. She held it against him all his life – though she liked his gold well enough.”

“I can imagine,” Mary said. “So you are one-eighth – ”

“An octoroon or quintoon, as best as I can make out.”

“Jed,” she said tentatively, “I have to ask – did Eliza know?”

He laughed bitterly. “No, no one else knows but you and my mother.” He paused. “Not even Ezra.”

She sighed. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You should know it, if we are – if we are to have children some day.” He looked away.

“I hope for that.” She gazed at her hand. “The ring is very beautiful. What was your grandmother like?”

He turned over suddenly to look at her. “So it really doesn’t matter to you?”

She was deliberate in her response. “Of course it matters to me, Jedediah. But – not in the way you might imagine.” She looked at him pointedly. “You are a complicated man, Doctor Foster. Raised on a plantation, grew up owning slaves –”

“My _family_ ’s slaves,” he said.

“The same thing,” she insisted. “And still you don’t believe in the emancipation of colored people?”

“I never said that,” he retorted. “I just – I don’t believe in revolutions. I’ve been to France, I know what it did there. I believe in democracy, in our Republic, in slow change. I can countenance a war to keep the Union –”

She interrupted him. “But how can it be a democracy when so many are enslaved? When even educated women cannot vote, cannot –”

He threw an arm over his face. “Oh dear God, Mary, can’t you see I agree with you? Slavery is wrong, it is a moral failing – I know that. But are we to free everyone at once? And then what? Who will feed, clothe, educate all these free men?”

“I imagine they can feed themselves,” she said bitterly. “Isn’t that the idea of Emancipation? That no one need have a master anymore, that every man and woman look after their own destiny?” He grunted. “You know that I am right,” she insisted.

“You are right, Mary,” he said.

She turned and stroked his cheek. “I love you, Jedediah. Nothing you have told me will change that.”

“So you will accept the ring?” He looked at her pleadingly.

“I will accept the ring,” she said slowly, “because I love you, and because this ring, and its history, are important to you. But I don’t need a ring to know that we are married.”

“You’re so sure of that, are you?” he asked, reaching for her naked breast. She laughed – a high, golden laugh, and fell back on the bed as he caressed her further.

“I am positive,” she laughed, drawing him closer.

The urgency of their earlier encounter had waned, and Jed took his time now to explore her body as he had wanted to before. He noted the dark hue of her nipples, the speckling of birthmarks across her legs and arms, the perfect curve of her waist leading to her hips. He was struck, a second time, by how incredibly receptive she was to these kinds of explorations, to the glance of his fingers over her ribs, the kisses he was now bestowing to her neck, the rub of his legs against hers. She was as eager as he was, and it was a rare experience for him to have such a willing partner (barring, he had to admit, his trysts with a certain lovely _parisienne_ on his first trip to France, before his marriage to Eliza). He loved seeing what his touch could do to her – the way she gripped him more tightly, met his kisses with her own, wrapped her arms around his back. He almost could not believe that such a woman had agreed to be his own!

His pride had been wounded no small amount by Eliza’s inattention -- hadn’t he still been a young man, hadn’t he a dark beard and broad shoulders and fine fingers? And she had wanted none of it, or if she did, then only perfunctorily so. He had not thought she would be that way when they were engaged; then she had flirted prettily, had let him see the turn of her ankles, had given him come-hither looks from across the room. And then, after their marriage, it had all felt a sham, and he knew that he had been had by her blond good looks and her family name, he had been entirely had!

It was not so with Mary. With Mary, he had not expected so much; he had expected, rather, that she might be a little stiff herself, with her Yankee upbringing and the sense she gave always of moral probity. But from the very beginning he had found himself wanting to provoke her, wanting to see what lay beneath her poise, wanting and hoping to find a passionate woman and not merely an earnest _bas bleu_ come down from Boston to set them all right _._ And he had not been mistaken in his early estimation of Mary Phinney, for the woman beneath him was bold and forthright, certain in her convictions, but also not lacking in fervor. For how else could he explain the way she rubbed her cheek against his own, the catch in her breath when he kissed her chin? He wanted suddenly to tell her all the things he had ever imagined about her, and before he thought better of it, said,

“You can’t imagine the scandalous turn my mind takes when I’m with you, Mrs. Foster,” he whispered.

She laughed and pulled him closer, speaking into his ear, “I think I can, _Doctor_ Foster.” She broke away and smiled up at him before, just as quickly, she slid out from under him and exchanged her position with his own. Then she was above him, pinning him down with her hips, her breasts full in the shadows, and he could hardly speak for wanting her. “But I don’t mind if you tell me,” she continued. He reached for the side of one breast, tracing the place where it met her ribs before running his thumb over her nipple.

“I wondered if—” watching her mouth open as he touched her – “Well, honestly, I had wondered what color _these_ were,” he admitted. “Some dark-haired women have rosy nipples, others tend towards crimson or nut-brown. And yours,” he said, touching both of them, “are decidedly beautiful, whatever you call this shade.”

She brought her hands over his, stilling his caresses, and closed her eyes tightly. “They were not always this color,” she said, her voice suddenly changed. He looked up at her with concern.

“Mary?” he began. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a doctor,” she shot back at him, “surely you can guess.”

He brought his hands away from her and looked at her face, tired and grave. “Have I upset you?” he asked.

She looked away. “I know you did not mean to,” she said at last. “But – when I wrote to tell you that we had not had children, I said that our marriage was barren. That was not exactly a lie – we never did have children – but I was with child twice, and lost them both times.”

Oh how he yearned to comfort her! How he wished to put his arms around her, and reassure her that those had surely been mere accidents, that they meant nothing, that with them it would be different. But he was a doctor, and he had no such reassurances to give, none at least that were honest. He only knew that the memory had troubled her, and instead of giving her comfort he asked her the questions he best knew how to ask.

“How far along were you?”

“Three months the first time, I think,” she stuttered, “And then – five or six or seven. I don’t know.”

“Were the pregnancies difficult?” he asked.

“I don’t –” she cocked her head and looked at him. “I don’t have much to compare them with. I felt ill sometimes, like I wanted to vomit. But I understand that is quite common.”

“Quite common,” he affirmed. “And you, Mary – were _you_ ill?”

“Was _I_ ill?” she asked, puzzled and then enlightened. “Not the first time, but the second time – the longer one – the child I lost – yes, I had been very ill, some sort of fever, before I lost him.”

“Then it was the fever that made you lose the child, Mary,” he said in a rush, “and not any fault of your own.”

“Why would it be my fault?” she asked, angered. Yet still she sat upon him, and did not make to move.

“Some women are not made to carry children,” he said. “Sometimes the problem can be identified, other times – not. But in your case, if it was a fever, I believe the problem was not in you but in the illness you had, which any woman might have had.”

She closed her eyes and gripped his hands. “I didn’t think we would talk of this,” she said. “Not now.” He looked at her with all the tenderness he could muster.

“I love you so, Mary,” he said. His chest was tight and he knew he had pushed her too far with his questions, and he was sorry for it. There he was, acting like her doctor when she had wanted him to act like her husband. And how _was_ a husband supposed to act in a time like this, when his new wife was telling him she had twice been with child and feared she might never carry a baby to term? How would a man respond who was not a physician and doctor? What words of comfort could be offered other than his assurances that he loved her? But then he thought again, and, “Mary,” he said in the gentlest voice he had, “Are you afraid to get with child again because you are afraid you might lose it?”

Still she would not look at him, and now he felt rather than heard the sobs rise up within him, felt them wrack her thin chest, felt her collapse upon him and bury her face in his beard and ask him, with her hands, to keep loving her body, to keep touching her, even as her tears kept running and her eyes remained shut to him. He ran his hands over her back, slowly, softly, whispering his love to her and holding her as her sobs turned to hiccups and she laughed ruefully, begging his pardon.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, still so grateful to have her in his arms. “Don’t be sorry, Mary.” And then, “What a difficult time you have had of it. So much loss. I don’t wonder that you – don’t want to try again.”

She looked up then, and caught his eye at last. “It’s not – Jed – it’s not that I don’t want to try. It’s that I don’t think I can bear to go through what I went through before, not if I’m all alone again.”

And again he chided himself for his stupidity, for failing to ask the right questions, for failing to diagnose the true ailment. “So you lost the second child – you lost the second child _after_ you lost your husband?” he asked.

She nodded.

“God, Mary, what wretched fortune you have had!” He pulled her down and she nestled into his side.

“I thought, at times,” she said, “that it was a punishment for something. Something I had done wrong.”

“Don’t ever think that,” Jed said with anger. “That’s foolishness, superstition. Whatever could you have done wrong?”

“A great many things, Jedediah,” she said. “Though you would not believe it.”

“It’s not that I believe you incapable of sin,” he said, watching her closely. She smiled and he continued. “It’s that I don’t believe God works in that way. I don’t believe God decides who lives and who dies.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” she asked.

“It’s the only comfort I know how to give,” he said, quite honestly.

“Not the only one,” she said. And then they were still and silent for a long while, holding each other.

She moved first, climbing up upon him once more and urging him into activity with her hands. He felt himself grow firm in her grasp, almost unwillingly, for he knew not what state she was in or whether she would regret this later. He stopped her before it was too late, and turned her again so that she was lying flat on the bed, and he at her side. When he reached for the place between her legs, she spread her legs and let him graze his fingers between her folds, then back again to where the soft hair grew, under her buttocks and over her pubis. She began to keen when he found her clitoris again, and he felt satisfied when she lifted her hips into his hands, seeing how she clenched the sheets with her fingers and arched her back. He could give her this now, at least, let her know with his fingers and his mouth how very perfect he found her body, how utterly guiltless and freshly young she was, striving for completion under his hands and letting him see her in her full desire. He felt her climax build in the tension that took hold of her, starting in her hips and slowly making its way to her ribs, her neck, her shoulders. She shuddered once, twice, a third time, and then she was sobbing again as she came apart on his fingers. He drew them away before it became too much for her. Her face was white and peaked but at last the tension had fallen away; she looked very young and very innocent, and he wished that it were so.

He did not ask her to reciprocate.

He thought to himself, _This does not solve things_ , and _Will she think I took advantage?_ – before remembering that she had invited him to do so, and was now inviting him again with her hand on his penis and her mouth on his. And oh how swiftly and surely she moved her hand, how little hesitation she had as she pulled at him and put her index finger in his mouth and told him, sternly, to _suck on my finger_ and _keep going, Jed,_ and _I have you_. _I love you. I have you._ He came more quickly than he had intended, spent himself again in her hands and over her stomach and breasts. She rested her forehead against his, told him she loved him, kissed his mouth and would not let him move to clean up his mess, told him she _liked it this way,_ she _did not mind_ , and _stay a while with me Jed my husband Jed._

He held her close and hoped that they had done the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to BroadwayBaggins for a bit of Mary's backstory in "Storms of War" that I found quite believable and borrowed here. Emma


	13. Seven letters.

August 4th, 1863

My dearest George:

I hope that this letter finds you well and that your battalion is recovering after the fighting at Gettysburg last month. I often think of you and pray for you and hope that you will keep safe throughout this war.

I am writing with the news that I was married yesterday to Doctor Jedediah Foster; you may recall I met him while working at Mansion House Hospital in Virginia. You will be surprised to hear of this, and I am sorry to have kept from you these recent developments in my life. You see, Doctor Foster is in Boston on his furlough, and while I had some hope that we would become engaged in these weeks, I had not wished to let others know of our growing attachment until I had more definite news to share. We were married yesterday in an army chapel in the city, and Doctor Foster will stay here with me in our sister Caroline’s house until the end of his furlough. As there is still no word on when Joseph will be released from his imprisonment, I cannot leave to join Doctor Foster in Alexandria, though I hope that we will be reunited soon.

I think you would like Doctor Foster; he is nearly your age, and you have a similar temperament – a bit taciturn, solitary yet generous, and whip-blade smart. I must tell you, though, because you would find it concerning if you heard it first from someone else, that Doctor Foster is recently divorced; his wife left him and went West over a year ago, but they had been estranged for nearly five years. Please believe that they were divorced before the doctor spoke to me of his affection towards me; I would not have permitted it any other way. We were married hastily because of the War and not for any pressing reason (for, indeed, there is none) other than that he wished me to be ensured of some inheritance were he to pass away. He is from a wealthy ~~plantation~~ Virginia family and has ample means to provide for me, though you know I am not lacking in that regard. I love him and would be happy to be his wife though he were a penniless physician, and look forward to the day when you two will meet.

Joe and Mattie are at the farm with your children, and I expect that they are cavorting like only two city boys recently liberated can do, so I do not worry for them. I will write your wife and tell her of the news of my marriage, to prepare them for it, though their lives are not likely to change as a result. Doctor Foster will be a name to them, that is all, until their father comes home and they will have to face up to the reality of my return to Virginia to be with my husband.

With much love,

Your sister,

Mary Foster

* * *

 August 4th, 1863

Dear ~~Miss Green~~ Emma:

Please accept my apologies for my delay in responding to your last letter; I have been much occupied in preparing to send my nephews to my brother’s home in western Massachusetts for the month of August, and have had scarcely a moment to myself.

I am touched by your confiding in me and hope that I can respond in kind by sharing with you some news of my own.

I had indeed known of Doctor Foster’s visit to Boston; in fact, his principal motive was to come to call on me, though he still intends to carry out the medical demonstration. We have been in regular correspondence since I left Mansion House, during which time, as you may well know, the Doctor obtained a divorce from his wife. Following his divorce he expressed a growing affection for me that he hoped to find reciprocated, as indeed it was; a half-year of frequent intercourse with him had assured me of his value as a man and as a friend, and I willingly consented when he asked to write me as a lover rather than as a colleague. He came to Boston with no other aim than to ask me to marry him, and our union was formalized yesterday.

I imagine that this all comes rather as a shock to you, who knew the doctor as a married man and me as a grieving widow, and likely perceived little of the friendship that sprung up between us as Mansion House. Let me assure you, then, that as long as he was married, we were no more to each other than colleagues and a friends. It could not be any other way. Love came later, through our written correspondence, and was as much a surprise to me as it may be to you.

Let me also tell you, though it may be difficult for you to imagine, that it is indeed possible to love again after first love has faded, and that one’s second love may feel every bit as new and entrancing as one’s first.

And how are you, my friend at Mansion House? How are the soldiers doing under your care? What have you learned recently that you may boast about only to one who is distant from you, such as myself? Please share with me all your pride in your work and your growth as a woman and Nurse, as I am keenly interested in the path your life has taken in my absence.

I hope to visit Doctor Foster at Mansion House in some not-too-distant future, and look forward to renewing our friendship again.

Warmly,

Mary Foster

* * *

To: Anneliese Maria von Olhausen  
Heidelberg, Deutschland  
From: Mary Phinney Foster  
Boston, Massachusetts

August 4th, 1863

My dear sister:

I write to you with glad news, which you will have anticipated from my new surname: I have been recently married to Jedediah Foster, a doctor I met while working as a nurse in Virginia last year.

It was you who, after Gustav’s death, first reminded me of my youth and urged me to marry again to ensure my future happiness, and so I believe that you will also be happy for me in my new state.

It is also in me to believe that Gustav would be pleased to know that I am no longer alone, and have hopes of a shared future and family with another man, though I will always grieve the early loss of our beloved Gustav.

Yours,

With love,

Mary Foster

* * *

 August 4th, 1863

Dear Joseph:

I hope this letter finds you well and that the conditions in Richmond have improved since we last corresponded. Your sons are ensconced at my brother’s farm for the month, and I imagine they are enjoying their respite from the intolerable Boston summer and from their crotchety old aunt.

I write to you with the news that I have been recently married to Doctor Jedediah Foster of Alexandria, Virginia, whom I met while working as a nurse in that city. The Doctor is in Boston on his furlough and will be returning to Virginia shortly. I, of course, will remain in Boston with the boys until such time is suitable for me and my husband to be reunited, whether that is at your release or at the end of this War – whichever come first. For your sake I hope that such an end is close at hand, through whatever means possible.

Please write me soon and tell me how you are faring and whether any release is possible, following Gettysburg.

With love always,

Your sister,

Mary Foster

* * *

 4 August, 1863

To: Mister Solomon Ward, _Esquire_  
Baltimore, Maryland  
From: Doctor Jedediah Foster  
Boston, Massachusetts

Mr. Ward:

I write to ask for an amendment to my will, last dated June of this year.

I have been recently married to one Mary Phinney, formerly Baroness von Olnhausen, of Boston, Massachusetts, on August 3rd, 1863, in this same city.

In the case of my predeceasing my wife, I ask that the entirety of my estate be bequeathed to her, Mrs. Mary Foster, _née_ Phinney, of Beacon Hill, Boston. She is to have full control of my assets after my death, regardless of issue and regardless of future matrimony on her part. Her attorney is James Bolton, _Esq_., also of Beacon Hill, Boston.

Please draft up this newest version of my Will and send me a copy at your earliest convenience to Mansion House Hospital, Alexandria, Virginia, and another to my offices in Baltimore.

Thank you.

\--Jedediah Foster, M.D.

* * *

 4 August, 1863

Mother:

This is the last letter I will send you, unless you will ~~deign to~~ reciprocate my correspondence. I have heard nothing from you directly since I last saw you at Mansion House, and Ezra is a poor correspondent ~~at best~~.

On my end, it should interest you to know that I was married yesterday to Mary Phinney, formerly Baroness von Olnhausen, in Boston. I have written my attorney and have named her as my sole heir in the case of my early death. My wife is a Northerner and an Abolitionist; she will not keep the plantation intact should I predecease her, though I believe she will treat you generously and fairly in my absence, even if I am not inclined to do so.

I am immensely happy and incredibly fortunate in my new wife. I am even feeling so generous as to wish that you too are well, as well as can be in the midst of this war, and are at last reconciling yourself to having a son who has met none of your expectations and is, regardless, a productive and useful member of society, dependent on no one for his livelihood, well-esteemed in his profession, and loved and valued by a worthy woman.

Your son,

Jedediah Foster

* * *

4 August, 1863

Doctor Summers:

Thank you for granting me this furlough and the opportunity to come to Boston and provide the trephination demonstration for the medical cadets at Cambridge. There is much interest here in the practices we are employing on wounded soldiers and, I believe, tomorrow’s demonstration will be very well attended if Doctor Harris is to be trusted.

I have asked Nurse Mary Phinney to be my assistant at the trephination. Although it may be unusual to have a woman in the operating theatre, I believe Nurse Phinney is the person best suited for this job given her first-hand experience at Mansion House Hospital (experience sadly lacking among many of these Yankee cadets) and her surgical capabilities -- of which, no doubt, you are well aware given her skillful work on your thumb (and should you wonder _,_ she did not tell me of this unusual surgery, rather I inferred it myself).

I write you also with the news that Miss Phinney and I have been recently married, though the good nurse is unable to join me at Mansion House at present given her existing family obligations, which I respect and honor. When she is able to join me in Alexandria I hope that you will welcome her back in the capacity you deem fit – recall, if you please, how very smoothly the Hospital ran under her management – and will not question her ability to serve both as nurse and as my wife for the duration of this war.

In the case that this arrangement does not suit you, Doctor Edward Harris of Cambridge, who invited me for this demonstration, is quite content to employ me as Instructor of Medical Cadets at Harvard as long as this war lasts.

Respectfully,

Jedediah Foster

* * *

 


	14. August 4, 1863. Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I have been thinking about ever since Mary told Jed that she had always wanted a King Charles spaniel, and he responded that his "bark was worse than his bite." 
> 
> (Though somehow I have the feeling that what Mary wants is to give up control, not to always have to wield it. And so this chapter came about.)

“And there,” Mary said, closing the lid of her desk and rising, “There, I believe I have settled what needs to be settled. And you, Jed?” She looked across the study, to where he was seated in the opposite desk.

“One moment more,” he said. “Just – finishing my letter to Doctor Summers. Can we post these right away?”

“Of course,” she said, gathering together her small pile of letters and adding his to the mix. “I’ll go find a messenger.”

“Let me do that,” he said. “Unless you’d rather we go together?”

“Very well, then,” Mary said. “It will do us some good to get some fresh air.” He rose and stood besides her, reaching around for her hand and kissing it.

“I’m almost sorry to leave the house,” he said. “We’ve—we’ve been very happy here, these days.”

“And so we shall be again,” Mary said. “But we can’t possibly stay inside all week.”

“Can’t we?” Jed looked at her mischievously. But he reached to put on his jacket, and she helped him with the buttons.

“There,” she said, fastening the top button and resting her hand on his shoulders. “You look every inch the captain.”

“Without having served a day on the battlefield,” he quipped.

“Haven’t you?” she asked, turning her face up to be kissed.

They stood kissing for some time, his beard tickling her lips, his hands at her waist. It was so sweet to be with her thus, in a world of their own making, and it was with some reluctance that he let her go.

“Come, then, Mrs. Foster,” he said brightly, “Or we won’t make it out at all today.”

* * *

When they returned to the house, Betty was in the kitchen making up their luncheon. She alerted them to her presence by coming to greet them in the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron before offering to shake the doctor’s hand.

“Welcome home, Doctor Foster,” she said. “Don’t worry, I won’t be troubling you for long. Just stopped in to do some tidying up and start your meal. Miss Ph—Missus Foster—said you would be staying here until the end of the week. Please let me know if there’s anything you need, and leave me the clothes you need washing. I can call in a barber for a shave later, if you’ll be wanting one.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I – I am very glad to be here.” He felt shy, suddenly, in front of someone else. This wasn’t his house, it wasn’t even Mary’s house, and yet he felt more welcome coming from this old woman than he had felt in his own home in Baltimore.

Betty smiled at him. “You will do her good,” she said, nodding to Mary. “She has been very lonely here.” Mary looked down shyly.

“Have I?” she asked in a quiet voice. “I thought I was doing rather well.”

“By yourself?” Betty answered.

“I have not been alone,” Mary said. “There’s you, and the boys…” But she was smiling now.

“And I’m sure an old woman and a pair of rapscallions is exactly what you need,” Betty said, “But no, Miss Mary, you have been lonely, since Gus—” Betty trailed off.

“I have been very lonely,” Mary admitted. “But now I am…not.” She blushed and turned to go into the parlor. Jed stayed behind for a moment with Betty.

“Thank you for looking after her so well,” he said. “She needs a friend.”

Betty sighed. “I haven’t looked after her much,” she corrected him. “She has a fierce independent streak, that one. But, look—she _has_ been lonely, though she tries to hide it. And she needs companionship of her own, someone her own age.” She paused, considering. “It is a very good thing that you have married her,” she said. “And she has been fortunate to find a man such as you. When her late husband died, Caroline and I were so concerned for her. It seemed as if she would never recover. And then when she decided to take up nursing—Caroline was against it, but I thought it might help her. She has always tried to make herself useful. Comes of being an orphan, I expect. But now,” she said, “I shouldn’t say any more. Go in and join your wife. I’ll be gone soon.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Jed said. “And take your time.”

“That I won’t,” Betty said lightly. “I was newly wed myself once, and don’t intend to outstay my welcome.” She smiled at him and returned to the kitchen.

But Jed wished that she would stay. Betty had given him a little glance into what Mary’s life had been like before he had met her, and into her present life in Boston. There was so much of Mary’s past that he was ignorant of, having first met her in a situation in which she was far from home and initially unknown to those at Mansion House.

He remembered how he had first thought she would be, when Doctor Summers told them that some German dowager Baroness would be leading their nursing staff; he had anticipated a caricature of an overbearing, tight-corseted middle-aged woman with a booming voice and unbridled confidence in herself. Mary herself had been – quite unexpected to say the least, all Spanferkel aside. To begin with, she was American, not German, and a Yankee to boot; she was considerably younger than any widow had the right to be; and while she was self-confident, she had clearly earned her authority through her thoughtful and firm manner, rather than through any inborn sense of her own superiority to others. He had not known at the time that it was not just the loss of her husband but the loss of a child that had driven her to nursing; that those losses were still quite recent and raw when she began at Mansion House (would he have accused her of enjoying his misery, otherwise? – he liked to think that he might have shown her more compassion, had she let him know more of herself from earlier in their acquaintance); and that she herself had been an orphan when she was very young. Those things he did not know, and other things besides, and yet he could tell by her servant’s manner towards him that Mary was much loved and esteemed, not only at Mansion House, but in her life in Boston among her family. He had not doubted that would be the case for a woman of worth, but it still pleased him to discover for himself how universally liked and respected was his new wife.

She was waiting for him in the parlor, sitting prettily on the settee and perusing a dog-eared book.

“Whitman?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “Another favorite.” She held it out to him. “John Donne.”

“Ah, the contradictory Englishman.” He regarded her sternly and recited:

   “License my roving hands, and let them go  
   Before, behind, between, above, below.  
   O my America! my new-found-land---”

“Stop, Jed!” Mary scolded, then more softly: “Betty is still here.”

“Betty is in the kitchen,” he responded, and continued:

   “How blest am I in this discovering thee!  
   To enter in these bonds is to be free;  
   Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.  
   Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,  
   As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be…”

“You are incorrigible,” she said, holding her hands out to him.

“If only my wife were more modest in her selection of poetry,” he answered, sitting at her side and pulling her into his arms. “You can’t imagine what I thought the first time I got my hands on that Whitman.”

She smoothed back his hair with one hand. “What _did_ you think, then?” she asked.

“I thought it had been a mistake, that surely you had not meant to quote so freely from a book such as that; that perhaps you had only read the first few poems, and thought it ended there.”

“I believe I wrote to you that some found him scandalous,” Mary reminded him.

“Scandalous in his democratic sentiments, is what I thought you meant.”

“When did you realize that’s not what I meant?” Mary asked, tracing his eyebrow with her index finger. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her neck.

“When you quoted that part about willingly staking all—then I knew.” He kissed her chin, then stopped and looked her in the eyes. “I was not yet free then,” he said in a low voice. “I knew that Eliza was a seeking a divorce, but if it had not come – I could not have asked you to stake all.”

“You could have asked me to wait,” she said gravely. “I would have waited.”

“I would not have asked that of you,” he repeated.

“And that is why I said I would stake all,” she answered, “Even if you would have not, I would have done.”

“Do you love me less because I would not take the risk?” he asked.

She kissed him gently. “I love you the more for it,” she said, “and yet still I would have quoted you that passage. I would have been your lover—”

“I didn’t want you as my mistress,” he interrupted her gently. “I wanted you as my _wife._ ” He heard the kitchen door shut in the hallway, and Betty called goodbye to them.

Mary rose and went to the door, opening it and calling through after the other woman. “Good afternoon, Betty. Thank you!” She turned and came back towards Jed. "You wanted to marry me,” she repeated. “Even if you had been married before, and it had not done for you?"

“What can I say?” he asked helplessly. “Hope springs eternal?”

“You can do better,” she said, coming to where he sat on the couch and standing between his legs. She looked down at him and he brought his hands up to her waist, pulling her near to rub his cheek against her stomach.

“In this, at least, I am conventional,” he said as his mouth made its way upwards, kissing her from her navel to her neck through the thin fabric of the bodice. He loosened the button at her collar and slid his hand inside, opening her frock just enough to kiss her collarbones before sliding his mouth lower, between her breasts. She was very warm and very still in his arms, and he wished to jolt her, to provoke her in some way.

“May we go upstairs?” she asked. “That is---” she fumbled when she saw his face. “That is, if this is the way you mean to go on.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry—I lost track of where—”

“I’d just rather not continue this in the parlor,” she said, nodding towards the windows. He stood up, straightening his vest and indicating that she should go out before him. He watched her turn and followed her through the door and up the stairs.

She was very steady on her feet, quite certain of her movements and each step she took, and again he wished to goad her in some way, to make her lose her cool. He knew that she was capable of great passion, but in the writing and posting of letters that morning and in the formal communication they had upheld while Betty was at home, he felt somewhat as if he had lost her, as if she had gone back to being Nurse Mary or The Baroness, and he was left outside again, wondering who she was and whatever she was doing with him.

She turned to look at him when she reached the landing, and offered him her arm as she led him again into her bedroom. As the door closed behind them she lifted her hands up to his face, running her fingers over his cheeks before pressing her lips against his and kissing him gently. Her kisses were almost too sweet to bear, so light and fleeting on his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his nose. She was playing at delicacy, and he wanted roughness and rhythm and excitement.

Decisively, he moved towards Mary, scooping her up in his arms and walking her backwards towards the bed, where he urged her flat on her back as he rose up above her, pinning her hands down above her head. He would have removed his hands immediately had she not whimpered and ground her hips more deeply into the mattress with the touch of his hands. Then he understood that this was what she wanted too, had wanted but had felt unable to ask for: this kind of possession from him. He held her wrists more tightly and noticed how she struggled against them even as she relaxed further into the bed, how she sought for his mouth with her own and fell back in frustration when he kept his face an inch too far away. Then she strove in earnest against his hands at his wrists, brought her legs up and attempted to wrap them around his waist to bring him closer to her. But her large skirts were in the way and still he kept his distance, holding her hands tight so that she could not have the satisfaction of reaching him.

“I want to experiment,” Jed said. “I have a hypothesis—something I think you will like. May I try it?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, just—don’t—”

“I won’t go inside you. I won’t—” he hesitated, uncertain how to phrase what he wanted to say, although they both knew what she had meant. “I won’t—enter you—in that way.”

“Then do what you want,” she said. And then, in an echo of something she had told him before, when he had asked if he might call her by her given name: “You already have.”

“I am going to release your hands,” he said firmly, “And you are going to take off your skirts and corset. And then you are going to put your hands back right where they are now—.” He squeezed them in emphasis. “—And you will not say a word. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded, staring at him wide-eyed, and he let her hands go. As she fumbled for the stays at her skirts, he removed his own cravat, vest, and shirtsleeves. She glanced at him before she shimmied out of her skirts and rolled over onto her stomach to awkwardly reach back and loosen the stays of her corset behind her. Jed removed his trousers and drawers and stood naked behind her. He climbed on top of her and pinned her hips together with his knees before bending over to finish loosening her corset. He removed it and the chemise together. She was under him now, lying face down on the bed, her upper body bare and her lower body still covered in petticoats and pantalets. He reached for them and loosened them, then made her lift her hips so that he could pull them off her without tearing the garments. He was careful to not touch her more than was absolutely necessary to quit her of her clothing.

She seemed to tremble beneath him as the extent of her nudity was revealed to him, and turned her head back to look upon him as well. But he used a knee to press her hips down and indicated that he wanted her to stay on her stomach. She acquiesced without a word, her legs slightly parted, her arms relaxed above her head. He laid his naked body on top of hers and again held her hands down with his own. She arched her neck and turned her head, trying to catch him in a kiss, but he turned away from her lips and instead sought the nape of her neck with his mouth.

“Oh God Jesus Christ—” Mary began, then stopped herself. He laughed softly and rubbed his entire body over hers, delighting in the heat and the closeness and in the indecent sounds she was making. He heard her whimper as he laid his cock between her buttocks, and she gasped and shook against him when he kissed her shoulders, her neck, the side of her temple. She again tried to turn to kiss him, and again he avoided her touch.

Her body did not feel passive, though he had her firmly within his grasp and she could barely turn; rather, she felt alive with some dark energy pulsing within her that he could not account for. She was panting underneath him, panting and lifting her hips against his, shuddering when she felt his cock against her bottom, and letting out a soft low moan when he slipped and his cock went further down, between her legs, touching her just outside the place he had promised he would not enter. And still he would not, but laid there a moment anyway at her entrance, his cock hard and straining, reminding her with his touch that he was _there between her legs_ and _there if she would have him_ but _not now, not today_ , _my love_. She wriggled and pushed against his cock with her quim, trying to draw him in, but he evaded her and stayed outside her, above her, returning to rest between her buttocks and kissing her urgently behind her ears, at her jaw. She tried to free her hands but he kept them firmly in his grasp and would not let them go. She bucked her hips up against his in protest and he returned her movement by rubbing his penis gently over the lobes of her buttocks.

“Jed!” she exclaimed, desperate. And then: “Please…”

“What does the good nurse want?” he asked. She trembled and he knew she liked the way he was speaking to her. “You have been so good for so very long, Mary,” he whispered, and she lay perfectly still and attentive, waiting for him to continue. “So very selfless and giving. I think it’s time for you to have something for yourself, don’t you?”

“Jed,” she repeated, panting now. “I—”

“Shhh,” he said. “Hush, Mary. Let me give this to you. Just be still. Good. Keep your hands above your head, like that.” He brought one of his hands down and rested it on her hip before moving it to her upper thigh. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, pulling at her thigh with one hand as he lifted her hips up and indicated for her to support her weight on her forearms. Her entire backside was exposed to him and he took a moment to admire her. “What a sight,” he told her. “You are so perfectly formed, my pet, so bewitching. Do you know what I want to do to you?” He heard her breathe in sharply, and he was satisfied that he had said the right thing.

He gently pried her open, watching for that first sight of dark hair, for the pucker of her anus, the dark gleaming slit of her quim and its swollen lips. He licked a finger and touched her there, just outside her quim, before satisfying himself that she was wet enough. Then he moved a finger inside her, slowly now, slowly, careful to let her determine the pace with how wide she spread her legs and how eagerly she thrust back onto his hand. She felt delightfully tight and firm and he wondered how long it had been since she had had a man inside her. Two years? Three years, if they had abstained during Gustav’s illness? And in the intervening time her body had closed up again; it was as if she were not a widow but rather a maid, and he thought it was just as well that they were beginning their married life together slowly, like this, to give her time to adjust to the change.

He slid in another finger alongside the first and was pleased to hear her moan with the sudden stretch of her flesh around his fingers. He kept thrusting his fingers into her quim and bent his head close to hers so he could listen to her pants and spur her to greater action with his words. He told her she was stunning, she was so dear to him, she was a saint and a martyr and a dirty little -----. He let his fingers wander down to her clitoris and alternated between rubbing circles there and moving his fingers inside her. She spread her legs wider, pressed her face into the sheets, and began to moan and keen.

Jed sat up and brought his other hand to his mouth, licking his fingers. Then he spread her wide again, pulling apart the cheeks of her buttocks and finding the tight bud of her anus. She didn’t protest when he moved a finger over it, didn’t protest when he moved the finger slowly into it, just the tip of his finger inside her, and didn’t protest when he ordered her to touch herself, bringing her hands to her own clitoris so that he could continue to move inside her with both hands, in both entries. He could feel the beginning of her climax in the way she tightened around his fingers, in the way she arched her back and called his name. And then she was coming, she was sobbing and writhing underneath him, and he slowed his pace and removed his fingers, holding her close to him, hips against hips, his lips at her neck.

“You were so good, Mary,” he comforted her. “So very, very good.”

She sighed and hid her face, but she reached down between her legs and touched his penis. Jed thought he would come apart with that alone, but then she closed her legs around him, pushed back against him with her hips, and urged him to take his pleasure right there, pressed between her wet thighs. He braced his hands against the bed and let her continue to squeeze her legs around him as he moved back and forth in that sweet join between her legs and her pubis. She seemed to enjoy this kind of teasing movement and he remembered how her first climax with him had drawn itself out so long, how she had continued to tremble and gasp beneath him for minutes after that first sweet rush of pleasure, and he felt emboldened in his actions. He sat up and gripped her hips; she tightened her legs around him and it was too late to go back, he was coming and she held him as he spent himself between her legs and over her stomach. Then he collapsed upon her and she fell flat upon the bed, and he brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her cheek, her neck, until she turned and let him kiss her lips.

They kissed messily, frantically, and then Jed felt her teeth nipping his neck, his shoulder. She was biting him and sucking him and scratching his back with her fingernails, and he wanted more of desperate Mary, possessive Mary, Mary undone and undoing him with that wild laugh of hers, that throaty sigh, that foot against his calf and fingers in his hair and soft musky scent of woman.

“Was that what you wanted?” he dared to ask her at last.

She paused before answering. “How did you know?” she asked.

He laughed and held her close. “How did I know what?”

“I—I can’t explain it,” she said. “Only—that I have always wanted to be good, and to be very, _very_ bad, and you somehow saw that in me, and let me be both of them at once.”

“Was that what I did?” he asked, pleased with himself and with her. Then, more seriously, he explained. “I accused you once of enjoying my misery. But I only understood half of it, didn’t I?”

“You wanted me as your wife,” she said as a way of answering. “But I wanted to be your mistress _and_ your wife. And you have treated me like both.” She sighed deeply. “Thank you, Jed.”

“I’m not sure—” he began, and then stopped. “You are welcome, Mary,” he said finally, still pondering the full meaning of what she had said, and hoping he had understood her.


	15. August 5th, 1863. Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to an anonymous reader on tumblr who requested "tea with the Harvard medical school instructor." I turned tea into whiskey, and here it is.

“You will recall the case of Phineas Gage,” Doctor Foster said, addressing the corps of medical cadets gathered in the operating theatre. “Please, can anyone tell me of the man’s symptoms?”

A thin young man spoke up. “Mental disturbance,” he began. “Drastic changes in temperament, demeanor. Memory impairment.”

“Very good, cadet,” Doctor Foster responded. “Can someone else tell me of the location of his injury?”

The room was silent, and then a red-faced youth raised his hand. “Iron rod through the frontal bone,” he said. “Causing contusion and hematoma at site of entry.”

Jed nodded. “And what does the nature of his symptoms teach us about cerebral localization?” The room was silent. “Anyone?” he asked, then turned towards Mary. “Nurse Phin—Fos –Nurse Mary?” he asked.

She folded her hands in front of her apron. “The theory of cerebral localization suggests that each part of the brain has a specific function. Therefore, by observing the symptoms of patients with head injury at a specific region, we can infer the function of the affected cerebral region.”

“And our current patient?” he asked her. They had planned this, had practiced in advance that morning when Doctor Harris had introduced them to the patient and they had observed his behavior.

“Blunt trauma to the left side of the brain,” she answered. “Resulting in hematoma, swelling – for which trephination is the recommended procedure – and producing impairments in speech.”

“What kind of speech?” he pressed her.

“The patient can express himself verbally, can read and write, but appears unable to understand simple speech.”

“Exactly,” Jed said, satisfied. “Deficits in speech comprehension,” he elaborated for the audience, “suggesting, as per Broca’s theory, a left-brain localization of speech functions.”

The patient lay before them, still conscious but, as they had described, apparently with no notion of what they were saying. Jed pulled out a small notebook and wrote a few lines in it before handing it to the patient. “I am writing to him that we are to perform a surgery to relieve the swelling in his brain,” he explained to the cadets. “He can understand written language but not spoken language.”

The patient began to speak. “Yes,” he said, looking up at the doctor and nurse. “Go ahead. I am ready.” He looked at Jed and Jed nodded to Mary.

“The chloroform, Nurse,” he ordered. She prepared the cloth and folded it over the man’s mouth, pouring the liquid over it as Jed continued to describe the procedure to the class.

“We will cut through and peel back the _pia mater_ and the _dura mater_ ,” he was saying, “and then bore a hole in the skull of approximately one-half inch in diameter at the site of the hematoma; the hole should only be large enough to drain the site of the excess blood. Then we will wait for the blood to drain, replace the _pia_ and _dura,_ and close the wound with silk. Any questions?”

A cadet raised his hand. “What of the hole in his skull?” he asked. “Will you cover it?”

Mary continued to hold the chloroformed cloth over the patient’s head, then bent down and listened to his breathing. “He is ready,” she informed them.

Jed spoke. “Some prefer to cover the hole with a metal disk, others prefer to replace the skull bone we have cut out. Because of the risk of infection, we will do neither. His membranes and skin will grow back over the site of the surgery, and though his skull will have a hole, it will present a relatively small risk of future injury given its small circumference.” He grunted. “You would have to attack this man with a pen or blade in exactly the right spot for it to enter his brain,” he added. “Though I do not advise that he return to battle.”

“Which is quite controversial a response,” Doctor Harris chimed in. “Tell us what you have observed in your experience as an Army doctor in Virginia.”

“The purpose of the Army doctor is to mend men and send them back to the battlefield,” he said grimly. “Not to rehabilitate or to even cure, but rather to repair them until they are sound enough to hold a musket and follow orders – which this man, as he cannot understand speech, is presently unable to do.”

“But which your surgery will enable him to do,” Harris added.

Jed looked up at him. “One can only hope that he will improve,” he said. “Whether or not one should hope that he returns to battle – that, I fear, is a question for a philosopher and not for an Army doctor. My job – _your_ job –” he gestured expansively at the group, “—is to mend and repair. Catch and release. Stitch them up and send them back. Isn’t that so, Nurse Mary?” he asked.

She looked up from the patient, startled. “Yes,” she stuttered.

“Then proceed, if you will, to shave the patient’s head,” Doctor Foster instructed her. She bent down and prepared the razor, Jed continued to lecture to the cadets, and Doctor Harris drew closer to the two of them.

* * *

 Later, over tumblers of whisky – Mary had excused herself after the surgery, claiming she needed to see to something at the house – Doctor Harris congratulated Jed for the successfully trephination -- "Brilliant demonstration! Simply brilliant!" -- and they spoke at some length about battlefield medicine, medical training in the French and American universities, advances in anesthesia and other such topics, before Doctor Harris turned his attention towards the nurse that had attended the surgery. “Now tell me about your new wife,” he said at last.

Jed held out his glass for more whisky. “What do you wish to know, Jonathan?” he asked.

Doctor Harris sighed and looked pointedly at Jed. “All I know is that, six months ago, you wrote to ask me to look out for one capable nurse by the name of Mary Phinney, to provide her with assistance whether she desired to return to nursing or was seeking medical advice for herself,” he began. “And then you wrote shortly after and told me that your marriage to Eliza was over,” he added. “And this morning you arrive for tea and breakfast with said Miss Phinney, now Mrs. Foster. There is a story here, Jedediah, I know there is.”

“It’s not what you think it is,” Jed protested.

“Is it not?” the other doctor countered. “For it very much looks to me like you divorced your wife to marry a woman nurse you met in Alexandria. Please tell me if I’ve misunderstood something.”

Jed tugged at his beard and began to tap one foot agitatedly against the other. “ _I_ didn’t divorce Eliza,” he said flatly, opening his hands outwards with a shrug. “She left me over a year ago, to go with her family to California. I told her I wouldn’t go with her, but she was the one who gave me the ultimatum, who asked me for the divorce. She couldn’t understand that there was something more important than her family’s honor, couldn’t fathom that I had sided with the Union and not the Confederacy.”

“And what, exactly, was more important?” Harris asked drily.

“The war, the preservation of the Republic. Medicine. My studies, my experiments. The opportunity – though I hate to think of it as such, when we are speaking of the misery of man – the opportunity for study that is presented by the wounded soldier. Demonstrations such as these, operations such as I have performed in Alexandria. The chance to further my research, to continue my correspondence with Broca and others in Europe. Can’t you see? I could have done nothing of that in California, and now…” he trailed off.

“And Miss Phinney?”

“What of her?” _God damn it Harris, you ask too much._

“I understand she is – was – a baroness?” Jed hated the wry turn of Jonathan’s mouth, the way the other man seemed to be sizing him up, judging him and her both.

“Her late husband was a member of the German aristocracy,” Jed said simply. “She hates the title.”

Harris nodded. “And so she gave it up to be a doctor’s wife?”

“Yes, she did,” Jed said irritably. “Now, tell me – is there something else you wish to know? For I assure you there was nothing between myself and Mar—Miss Phinney—until my marriage with Eliza had ended.”

“Mary Phinney’s family is not unimportant in Boston,” Harris explained. “I had heard of her before, and I know her brother-in-law, an attorney, in whose house she is living. I would not like to have to account to him for—for the marriage of his wife’s sister to a Southern divorcé.”

“And why should you have to account for anything?” Jed asked, angered. “It is _I_ who have to do the accounting!”

“And do you think your rage will get you anywhere with her family?” Harris asked. “Your indignation?” He softened. “Why don’t you speak to me of her, and why you love her, and what you plan for in your lives together? Begin there, and you might get further.” He raised an eyebrow at Jed. “I am your old friend, after all.”

Jed let out a loud breath. “Very well,” he spluttered. “I – I love her. You can see how capable she is –”

“Very romantic, I’m sure,” Harris said sardonically.

“But she _is_ capable, Harris, damn it! She is capable and self-composed and more intelligent than any woman I have ever known. If she had been born a man she might have been a physician –”

“Faint praise,” Harris said. “But do go on.”

“And she’s simply the kindest and most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Jed said desperately. “And God knows I don’t deserve her, God knows I’ll probably make a mess of this marriage too –“ Harris raised an eyebrow, “—but I love her, and she loves me, and we were married this week, and I have never been so happy. That is the truth, Jon. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Now there’s the Jedediah Foster I know,” the other man answered. “There’s that wild, passionate youth I used to traipse with around Paris. I had wondered where he had gone to.”

“That is the foolish part,” Jed admitted. “I feel like I’m young again, but at the same time I feel quite middle aged. I know what I want from this marriage; I didn’t know it before, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to get that from Eliza.”

“You know, of course, that I am unmarried,” Jonathan stated.

“Your inclinations have never run in that direction,” Jed said. “But surely even you – even you can understand what it is like to be in love, to feel young again.”

“I can imagine it. But I also worry for you – what if she is not the woman you believe her to be?”

“Do you have any evidence of this? Do you know something of her that I do not?”

“No, not that,” Harris said. “Merely that – this was rather precipitous a marriage, was it not? Was there – pardon me my frankness, I speak as a friend – was there some altogether compelling reason for it?”

“I have been in Alexandria the last six months,” Jed retorted, angrily. “What other reason could there be? Do you think I have gotten her with child _?_ ” he sneered. “ _When_?”

“I did not say that,” Harris slowly answered. “But yes, I was concerned – not that you would be the first one to marry a woman because she says she carries your child – but because I reckon you know little of each other, and I would not want you to hastily enter into another ill-suited match.”

“Jonathan, while I appreciate your concern – no, I lie, I neither appreciate nor welcome this kind of concern. For the sake of our friendship, please – believe just this: we love each other. There has been nothing untoward in our courtship or in our marriage. I believe I can honestly represent myself to whatever family she has, without shame or regret for my actions. I only want what is best for her, and I have behaved accordingly.” He paused a long while. “I had not expected such questions from you,” he said bitterly.

“I am truly sorry,” Harris answered. “I can see that I was out of place. I can see that you care a great deal for this woman—”

“She is not _this woman,_ ” Jed interrupted. “She is my _wife_!”

“I can see you care a great deal for your wife,” Harris corrected himself. “And I ask you to please accept my apologies for any indiscrete questions I may have asked you. To tell you the truth, I am relieved to hear that you two are merely love-struck, and not encumbered or compromised in your relation to each other. For of course I would want my friend to be loved by a woman – please, believe that, Jed – even if I have not that same wish to be married.” Harris stared at his drink. “Please, forgive me. I am grateful for your assistance today, at the demonstration, and I so enjoy our correspondence. I would hate to think that all ended by my indiscretion today.”

“Of course it’s not ended,” Jed grunted. “A friendship of eight years doesn’t end in an instant. I accept your apology.”

“Then, please, send my thanks and my regards to your wife – to Mary – and tell her that her performance today was quite exceptional.”

Jed nodded and tipped his glass to him. “Of course she was exceptional,” he said. “I wouldn’t stand an assistant who was less than exceptional.”

“Nor a less-than-exceptional wife?” Harris laughed. “Then you won’t mind if I ask her to assist again? For another demonstration here, without you?”

“She is her own person,” Jed said. “I think you should ask her yourself.” Then he rose, handed his empty glass back to Harris. “And now, I believe I should join her. Jon, if you don’t mind – thank you for the whisky and for the invitation to Boston. I look forward to continuing our correspondence.” They shook hands, and Jed left the room. He made his way through the Yard, and sought out a cab to take him back to Beacon Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fun to bring some of my neuroscience background to bear in this chapter, though I tried to be cognizant that the ways we understand the brain now were just in their infancy at the time this story was set, and I don't even know if the same anatomical terms were used then as they are used now.


	16. August 5, 1863. Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Middlemarch has written a number of completely satisfying prequels and out-takes to this fic; I suggest you read "I can wade Grief," "Monogram," and especially "Come slowly -- Eden!" (which could just as easily serve as a substitute for this chapter).

There were beds to change and clothes to fold when Mary arrived home from the college. Betty had offered to send the linens out to wash, but Mary preferred to strip the bed herself rather than leaving her servant to touch their sheets. She had aired the bedroom out that morning, but it still smelled faintly masculine, of Jed and their love-making, and Mary was struck by how viscerally that smell affected her when she entered the room again. She had become accustomed to her own odorless scent, so familiar as to go unnoticed by her, and almost had forgotten what it was like to share a bed with a man and to smell him when he was not there: in their sheets, on the pillowcases, on his clothes, now draped over a chair.

She recalled how, despite his poor condition when she had nursed him at Mansion House, Jed’s scent was never sour or overpowering; even when he was waiting for the morphine to leave his body, and he perspired and trembled in her arms, he still smelled whole and pure, like a man who had spent the day toiling in the fields or forest, and not a patient locked inside a humid ward.

She recalled, also, how conflicted she had felt to be caring for him thus – how angry she was, at first, that he had let himself go, that he had lost all control when she had counted on him for so much at Mansion House; how distraught she was to see such a fine person wrecked and helpless and beggared; and then, how guilty she had felt for her own enjoyment in caring for him. There was pleasure to be had in being the one to hold him up, to wipe his brow, to bring a cup of water to his parched lips, to keep his secret. That secret had bound them together at first and even now it lay between them, unmentioned since he had been in Boston. He was not exactly correct when he had said that she liked seeing him in his misery, but it was true that she had felt a not-altogether indifferent satisfaction in keeping vigil with him, in bringing him his meals, in reviewing with him his own notes on his condition, alone with him in that dark room. Mary remembered the easy way that Jed had sat back on the bed and asked her for another kiss, stretching his arms out to her like a familiar lover, casual affection in every limb of his body.

It was then that she had come to recognize his own particular smell, and the olfactory memory lingered even after she had released him from his quarantine. It had been enough for Jed to come up behind her at a hospital meeting or to pass her briefly in the ward, and she was immediately brought back to the forced intimacy of his room, his illness, his dependency on her, and each time she sensed him she was made to face her own desire for him in the tension in her chest, her light-headedness, the heat in her hands.

Now, bundling up their sheets, she remembered with some embarrassment how he had spent himself upon the bed rather than inside her, and remembered the consideration with which he had made love to her – undemanding, patient, his own pleasure evident in his smiles and words of affection to her, completely attentive to her and her satisfaction. And with him she had felt at ease, had felt that there was nothing wrong in any part of their bodies, in the way they touched each other and were touched. She admitted to herself that perhaps she and Gustav had not entirely exhausted the possibilities of their own bodies, that perhaps in their wish for a child they had ignored other ways in which their bodies could join, other combinations of pleasure. Jed had placed his fingers inside of her quim and inside of her rear and had asked her to touch herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if there was no shame in it.

She recalled things the prostitutes had whispered to her – lips in the most unusual of places, penises between their breasts and inside their asses; tongues between legs, in navels and on breasts, in armpits, in ears; all manner of unusual positions: the men taking them from behind, or standing up, or demanding that the girls ride them, their breasts tremulous above them. She wondered which of these things Jed had done before, she wondered which he wanted to do with _her_ , and then considered – why not – which of those many outrageous things _she_ wanted to do to _him._ To take him in her mouth, to feel the soft glide of his penis on her palate and the vibration against her lips – this thing she had wanted to do ever since she had first seen him naked. She imagined what he would look like if he sat just as he had done when he had asked her for another kiss, leaning back on the edge of the bed, but if instead of sitting there in his shirtsleeves, if he were naked before her, erect and wanting her. What it would be like then if she, clothed, kneeled down in front of him and took him in her mouth? What would his face look like from below? Would he look down at her in curiosity, or would he throw his head back in silent pleasure? She wondered what he would smell like, what he would taste like, and he could not return home fast enough; she wanted him with a ferocity that astounded her.

Mary was reading in the parlor when Jed returned from the college later that evening. She heard him come up the stairs and rose to let him in.

He looked tired, grim. “How was tea with Doctor Harris?” she asked, taking his coat from him, pleased that their separation allowed her to greet his return with this token of domestic care.

Jed sighed. “He is a very old friend,” he said, “And sometimes old friends can see things you would rather they did not.”

“Such as?”

“He thought I had married you because you were with child,” he said bitterly.

Mary smiled and shook her head. “I suppose it’s to be expected,” she said softly. “This scrutiny, this mistrust. But –” He looked at her to go on. “—But we can’t let ourselves be so influenced, Jedediah. We know the conditions of our own marriage; no one else need know them or ask us to explain.”

“You have a very high expectation of others, my dearest,” he said, leaning forward to take her hands and kiss her cheek. “And of your self.”

“I do not,” she contradicted him. “But – please – ”

“Please what?”

“Please do not let them trouble you. Not now. Not when – not when we have so little time remaining for ourselves. The world will intrude soon enough and I – I still want you for myself.” He voice dipped to a whisper and she pulled him into her arms, kissing his cheek, his neck, his mouth.

He drew back from her and then touched his forehead to her own, looking deeply into her eyes. “We cannot keep the world at bay forever, sweet Molly,” he said. She smiled at the epithet; no one but her father and brother had called her that. “And I worry that my divorce will only cause you disapproval – from your family, your friends, even from the people at Mansion House, should you wish to return there some day.”

“How strange that _your_ divorce should reflect poorly on _me_ ,” Mary said sharply.

“Harris thought that I divorced Eliza because of you,” he responded.

“And didn’t you?” she asked. “Tell me truly, Jed – didn’t you?”

He sighed and bent his head, leaning against her. “You know I didn’t,” he said. “You know that she divorced me.”

“And you let her divorce you,” Mary pointed out. “You did not fight for your marriage.” She didn't know why she was leading him to this point when, scarcely moments before, she had wanted nothing more than to forget all such worries. She supposed some devil had gotten into her; the devil of doubt and fear and second-bestedness.

Anger in his voice, he said: “You do not know how I fought for my marriage, because that fight was carried out long before I met you, and I lost it. My marriage had ended before I ever arrived at Mansion House.” He stopped when he saw her face, took two deep breaths, and waited for her to speak.

“It’s not Eliza’s side I’m on,” Mary said softly, gripping his forearms, “But yours _._ ”

He sighed and broke her grasp to bring his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks and looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t want to be with Eliza,” he said. “I want to be with _you_ , Mary. Can you believe me when I tell you that my marriage to Eliza was over long before I met you? Can you trust in me when I say that you are my wife now, not her? Mary –” he pressed his forehead against hers, “I do not want you to fret over Eliza. Already you have given me so much – _so much_ – more than I had ever expected.” He was very close to her, his mouth just inches away from her own, and then he was moving towards her, kissing her, embracing her.

“There is something I still have not given you,” she said. “A wife – a wife should—”

“No,” he said, quite gently. “That I will not ask of you. I gave you my word.”

“I should not have made you promise,” she said, pulling away from him. He held her close. “It was not fair – ”

He interrupted her. “You had every right to ask that of me,” he said. “And it is not such a burden, as you might imagine, to refrain from being with you in that way. Don’t tell me – don't tell me, Mary, that what we have done together counts less as lovemaking because there was no chance of a child coming of it! Don’t tell me you regret this time, being together in this way, because you have some idea – where you got it from, I don’t know, certainly not from me – that I want something else from you. Please, my dear, my wife…” His voice grew silent, pleading, and she nestled more tightly into his arms.

“Very well,” she whispered. “I’m sorry – I need not have worried about the judgment of others, but rather about my own.” She looked away from him, to the frames on the wall.

“It troubles you that I am divorced,” he said.

“I suppose it shall take some getting used to,” Mary said. “Not – not being the first. But then again, Gustav had been married before.”

“Had he?” Jed asked.

“Yes, in Germany. She died of typhoid in less than a year after their wedding, and Gustav came to America after her death. He was older than I was, older even than you.” She paused. “So, you see, I am quite used to being the second woman.” She tried to sound resigned, peaceful even, but her bitterness seeped through.

“Is that what you think you are?” Jed said with irritation. “The second woman?” And then, more gently, meaning to comfort her: “Oh, Mary – if only you knew – if only I could make you believe that that was not the case!”

“Thank you, Jed,” she said, pulling away from him. “But it seems I shall need more telling for some time. And I am sorry for that.”

He drew her close to him and gave her a quick squeeze. In mock seriousness he said, “I look forward to showing you, without reprieve or mercy, just how sincerely I love and respect you, Mrs. Foster.”

His arms were warm around her, and she buried her face in his neck.

That night, when she reached for him in bed, he stilled her hands and asked if he might just hold her for a while, before they fell asleep.


	17. August 6, 1863. Boston.

Jed and Mary breakfasted the next morning on fried eggs and hashed potatoes, hastily prepared by Mary when she realized they had woken later than expected. They had just begun their coffee when there was a knock at the front door.

Mary rose to answer it, running her hands over her braids and smoothing down her skirts. “Who could that be at this time?” she murmured. Jed watched her walk away and snuck a glance at the newspaper he had bought the day before; defeat of the Sioux in the Dakota Territory, further reports of their defeat – who cared for such a distant war? He, for one, did not; he read absently, one ear open for Mary’s voice in the hallway.

She soon returned with three boys of various ages, the oldest tall and slim and near old enough to fight. He could not read her face; was she displeased?

“Sit down, Mattie,” she told the smallest one. And then to Jed: “These are my nephews: Mattie, the youngest, and Joe, his brother. And this is their cousin Milty -- Milton, my brother’s second-oldest son. He brought them back from the farm on the overnight train. His sisters have the chicken pox.” Jed hastily put aside the newspaper and stared at them, an ascending row of towheads. The littlest boy put his arms around Mary’s waist and she patted his head with affection. “Boys,” she said. “This is Doctor Foster.”

“Hello,” said the oldest, holding out his hand to Jed. His handshake was firm and he was not afraid to look the doctor in the eye. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Milton Phinney.”

“Why is _he_ here?” the middle boy asked dourly, nodding at Jed.

“Doctor Foster is from the hospital I used to work at in Virginia,” Mary started, then faltered. “And now he is my husband.”

“I thought you were already married,” Joe said, kicking his shoe against the floor.

“Yes, I _was_ married,” Mary answered with just a touch of irritation in her voice. “But you know that the Baron died. And now I've married Doctor Foster.”

“Why did you get married again?” This was the smallest child, speaking in a small, almost feminine voice. “Are you going to leave us?”

Mary knelt to the little boy’s height and put her hands on his shoulders. “I married him because he is a good man and I love him. But the Doctor lives in Alexandria, and I live here in Boston with you. He is just visiting me; he has to go back soon, alone, to do his work in the hospital." Mattie let himself be enveloped by her arms. "I won't leave you yet, little love," she continued, stroking his hair. "I promise. It’s just like I’ve always told you – I won’t leave until your father comes back.”

“I don’t want him to come back,” Joe said at her side, fiercely resentful. A lock of hair fell over his eyes and he bit his lip in frustration. “He shouldn’t have gone away. He shouldn’t have let them take him prisoner.” Mary sighed, as if she had heard this before.

“There is no shame in being captured, Joseph,” she said softly.

“I wouldn’t have let them take _me_ prisoner,” the boy said said. “I would have fought back. And then, turning to Jed. “Don’t you need to ask permission?”

“What do you mean?” Jed leaned back in his chair, amused.

“You can’t just marry my aunt. You have to ask permission,” the boy insisted.

“To whom would I ask permission?” Jed asked, smiling despite himself. "She already said yes."

"I don't like it," Joe grumbled. "And I don't like _you_. You speak funny. Like a Reb."

“Joe!” Mary said, angrily. “That’s enough. Remember what I said about how to behave to guests? I won’t have you acting like that in this house. Now,” she said, turning to Jed, “Shake Doctor Foster’s hand, and apologize.” The boy sullenly obeyed.

“Let me bring up the bags,” Milton said. “Aunt Mary, you’ll tell me where they go?”

“Of course,” Mary said, turning to the older youth. “Joe and Mattie can show you to their rooms, though you probably remember where they are. Are you planning to stay the night or get back to the farm later today?”

“I’d rather spend the night, thanks. My mother has some things she wants me to buy today, and I think I’ll take an early train back tomorrow morning.” 

“They arrived here on the overnight train from Northampton,” Mary explained to Jed. “My sister-in-law was afraid they’d get the chicken pox too, and she sent Milton to bring them home.” She sighed again.

“Ah, the dread varicella,” Jed intoned. And then, mischievously, “But who knows it wouldn’t be better for them to have it young and get it over with? It can be quite onerous in adulthood.”

“I think that Susan could do just as well to not have five sick children to look after,” Mary said sternly. “The poor women is already managing the farm on her own, and with three of her own girls sick it must be quite a strain on her. Come, Joe, go help your cousin with the bags. Mattie, you go too.” The littlest boy trailed after the larger ones, and Mary turned towards Jed.

“Would you like me to examine them?” Jed asked. “Make sure they don’t have any signs of illness? I hope for your sake that they do not.” He took Mary’s hand; she looked distant, her mind elsewhere.

“This is quite unexpected,” she said. “I’m sorry – they were meant to be gone the whole month. But yes, of course – examine them, though there’s little to be done if they are ill other than to keep them at home.”

“It’s hardly your fault they came back,” Jed said. “Besides, I have to meet them some time.”

“Joe was very rude,” Mary said. “He used to be such a sweet child, but ever since his mother died….” She trailed off, looking at Jed. “Truly, you don’t mind?” He pressed a kiss to her wrist.

“Like you said, Mary – we couldn’t stay walled up in here forever. And I’ll be gone soon, anyway.”

“I must admit I’m rather vexed, myself,” Mary said. “We had so little time remaining – what is it, two days more, and then you’re gone on Saturday? – and I had hoped we could loaf a bit on the grass, as Whitman would say. I had wanted to take you to see the Unitarian minister who baptized me, and stroll a while on the Commons, and take you to the flower market. And now – _this._ ” She waved her hand at the direction of the door. Upstairs, there was the boisterous rumble of feet, the shouts of one boy to another, the thud of books on the floor.

“I can see you’re better suited to being a nurse than a nursemaid,” Jed observed.

“If they were my children, I might see them differently,” Mary said. “But Caroline had no head for keeping order in the family. Joe ran wild and Mattie ran after him, and it’s taken me months of work to get them in line. Though clearly all that work has gone out the window in the week they've been gone.” She pursed her lips in frustration.

“You always did run a tight ship,” Jed said, amused. “I’m sure they are perfectly well-behaved boys. Besides,” he said drolly, “I was quite the handful myself, as a boy.”

“Only as a boy?” Mary teased.

“My father used to wash my mouth out with soap on a near-weekly basis,” Jed said. “He said I had a foul tongue and I had to be taught a lesson.”

“Even so," Mary said. "I don’t believe in the corporal punishment of children.” 

“Of course you wouldn't,” Jed said. “But sometimes – sometimes it’s the only thing that will teach a child a lesson. I know that the threat of a beating – and you should have seen the cat-o’-nine-tails my father kept – was the only thing put enough terror into me to keep me from being the very worst kind of boy.”

“That’s appalling,” Mary said. “Children should be instructed, not struck at like beasts – children should not fear their parents, but rather should obey them out of love.”

“’Spare the rod and spoil the child,’” Jed quoted at her. “It didn’t seem to do me any harm, Mary.” He reached for her hand. “But you know these boys better than I do. You will do what is right.”

“I don’t know that I have,” Mary admitted. “I will be glad when their father returns.”

Jed smiled at her knowingly. “So will I, though for an entirely selfish reason. And then you will come join me in Alexandria?”

She paused before answering. “If you are still there, yes. If not – we shall see. Would you ever consider living here, in Boston, after the war is over?” Then, hurriedly, she added, “But you have your practice in Baltimore, your patients – and the North is so different from the South. You will want to remain in Baltimore, I imagine.”

“I don’t know where I want to live,” Jed said. He spoke softly, looking at her. “So much has changed in this war, I can’t guess where I’ll end up, other than with you. But I know I don’t want to return to Baltimore; you would be unhappier there than I would be in Boston. The women, especially, would frustrate you, with their leisurely ways and their snobbishness. And my family is well-known there, and could make things difficult for us.” He smiled at the memory of his mother, her frank sense of entitlement at bursting into an enemy hospital and demanding that one of its surgeons operate on her son. She would not like Mary, and he did not like the idea of Mary having to always be on the defensive, having always to watch her tongue and her manners while, behind drawing room doors, viperous tongues whispered about her. It would be that way, if they went back to Baltimore. He still did not know how Boston would receive them.

“Your mother will not think well of me,” Mary said, “If what I have seen and heard of her is true. And I don’t think I like her very much, either,” she added.

Milton was back, leaning against one side of the doorway. Jed pulled away from Mary, let their hands fall apart. “Aunt Mary,” Milton said, “I wondered if I might get some rest before going out again to buy those things for my mother. It’s been a long journey here.”

“Of course, Milton,” Mary said. “You are welcome to take the spare room, that’s where you’ll sleep tonight. And Mattie and Joe?”

“Mattie said he wanted to sleep, but I think Joe is coming downstairs again,” Milton said, as his cousin joined him in the doorway.

“I can’t sleep right now,” Joe declared wildly. “I have to go see if Danny Crossland knocked down my fort. If he did I’ll punch his eyes out and make him eat worms!”

And so began a rather trying day for Mary, keeping track of which boy went in and out of the house, who had eaten what and who had skinned a knee, who needed a nap and who needed (Jed thought) nothing more than a good spanking. Jed bore the murderous glares of Joe without comment, and did his best to help Mary, telling her to _Sit down, you need not rush,_ and _Let me bring out the plates for you_ and _Joe, don’t speak to your aunt like that!_  and  _Yes, I really do cut off people's legs_ and so on until at last nightfall came, and they were alone again in her room.

“I thought the day would never end,” Mary said with a sigh. She was sitting at her vanity, taking down her braids, and he rose to stand behind her.

“Worse than Mansion House, is it?” Jed asked.

She looked at him sharply. “At least with our patients, there was always someone else who could attend to them, if only for a moment. And once they left, their fate was out of our hands. This work of caring for children is constant.”

“And still you want to have your own?” Jed asked, trying to temper the hope in his voice. He moved one long braid out of the way and bent to kiss her neck, catching her glance in the mirror. Mary reached her hand up and caught his, letting him cup her cheek. She spoke to his reflection.

“Not now, Jed,” she said reproachfully.

“I didn’t mean ---” he began. “That is – not now. But someday?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want my own children,” she continued. “But only – that it is much more work, much harder than I thought. And I don’t want to get with child now, you know that.”

“I agree. But would you let me try?” he asked.

“Try what?”

“To not get you with child?”

She laughed. “You may come to bed with me, Jed. But only – we mustn’t make any noise. The boys might hear.”

“I assure you, I can be very, very quiet.”

“It was myself I was worried about,” she said, turning and kissing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it goes without saying, but Jed's views on child-rearing are in no way reflective of my own.


	18. August 7, 1863. Boston.

“All right, then,” Jed said to Joe with a conspiratorial grin. “We are going to need two – no, make that three – large bullfrogs. Do you have any idea where we can procure such a trio?”

“Yes,” Joe said, swaying from foot to foot. “I can show you where.”

“Very good,” Jed said. “So this what we’ll do: you’ll go get the bull frogs, and while you’re gone I’ll set up the operating table.”

“Are we really going to operate on them?” Joe asked. “Will you let me cut them open?”

“The poor frogs are going to be dead,” Mary interjected. “It’s a dissection, not an operation, remember.” Jed looked at her with annoyance.

“The _dissection_ table, then,” he said. “And yes, you may cut them open as long as you don’t cut anything else. I’ll be watching you,” he added.

“Are you sure you only need three frogs?” Joe asked hopefully. “Or maybe – is there anything else we can die-sect?”

“Perhaps a cat, if your aunt—”

“No, Jed,” Mary said firmly. “ _Not_ a cat. Not in my kitchen. Even I must draw the line somewhere.”

“Please, Aunt Mary! Doctor Foster is going back to Virginia tomorrow and then I’ll _never_ have another chance again. Besides, I know where I can get a cat, that’s even easier than the frogs. There’s this black cat that lives in the alley behind Mrs. MacDougall’s house, and he’s just old and mean and scratches people. The kids call him Angus. I’ll tie him up and strangle him.”

“No cats,” Mary said again. “Now, off you go to get the bullfrogs before I change my mind.”

“Can I go too?” Mattie asked. He was on the floor next to the table, carefully lining up a row of tin soldiers on a parapet of wooden blocks.

Mary looked to Jed. “You stay here, Mary,” Jed said. “Get some rest. I’ll go keep an eye them.”

“Thank you,” Mary whispered. “You may go with them,” she said to Mattie. The little boy rose and tugged at the bottom of his shirt. “Joe, look after your brother. Jed –” she trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Just – enjoy yourselves.”

“How well you know me, Mrs. Foster.”

“I know boys and their beasts,” Mary said sagely.

“Is that what we are, then?” His voice was light, teasing. “Boys, or beasts?”

“Something like that,” Mary said, her cheeks turning pink. “Now be off, I said, or I’ll change my mind.”

“How fickle you are,” Jed said. He was looking at her in that steady, half-serious way he had, and she felt a rush of gratitude for his light-heartedness that day. It could have turned out very differently, if Jed had not made the efforts he had made with Joe that morning. He had spent half of breakfast telling the boys of their trephination demonstration – Milton, especially, was interested in the finer points of the surgery and was reluctant to leave for his train. Joe had also listened wide-eyed and Mary had to urge him repeatedly to finish his porridge. Mattie, like always, had appeared to not pay them much mind until, at the end of the explanation, he had asked Jed if he could show them how it was done. It was then that Jed had proposed the frog dissection.

“Come _on,_ Doctor Foster!” Joe said, interrupting their gaze. Then Jed and the boys were gone, and Betty came in to clear the plates away.

Mary’s feet dragged on the steps as she climbed back up to her room. She would lie down for a moment, and then she would pack a satchel for Jed’s journey the next day. Already she felt as if his farewell were upon them, as if Jed were not only gone down to the pond with the boys but had, in fact, left Boston entirely.

Betty had arranged some of the late dog roses in a willowware jar on her vanity: _rosa canina,_ pain and pleasure, the bark and the bite in a single, dying bloom. Mary gathered the fallen petals and crushed them sharply between her fingers. Now the room smelled of roses and Jed and his absence; now she missed him again, a sharp pain that made her press a fist to her chest and stumble on the bed frame. She wished he had not left her, she wished he would not leave her, she wished she had gone – could go – with him. And yet she loved the boys as she had loved her sister and she would not abandon them. But still she was struck, as she had been at Gustav’s death, with the sensation of never having enough. In her experience it did not do to become too accustomed to happiness, for as much as she clung to the idea of a loving God, this God had taken her parents from her when she was merely a child, this God had denied her the opportunity to say good-bye to her husband or her sister, and this God had now decreed that she would be separated again from the man she loved. She thought of Ruth and desired that she might go with Jed wherever he would go; she thought of Job and all that had been given and taken from her; she thought of King Solomon and of he who had once been only thorns to her.

When she awoke she heard the garbled voices of Jed and the boys down below, engaged in some gleeful discovery of heart or spleen. She had been dreaming of white lilies speckled red with blood; the starry heart of an apple; gold rings inlaid upon a cedar chest; acre upon green acre of wine grapes and their attendant bees; stag’s antlers wound round with blue cotton bandages; the firecracker blooms of _nicotiana_ in the moonlight; a labyrinth of gyri and sulci, holy mother and stone-hard mother standing guard in the spider’s web; and the end, at last, of interruption.

Still it was not their time. Still she would go down to the kitchen, greet Jed like a visitor, kiss her nephews and smile at their anural discoveries. Still she would feel this pain in this chest, this longing that began even before the absence (so accustomed, so studied, so practiced – still hated!).

It was then that she regretted that he had not gotten her with child, so that she might feel his absence less. Then she chided herself for her selfishness, reminded herself that a child deserved more cause for its birth than her own loneliness and desolation, and yet still she wanted that warm small body, the child she had held but once and the child she still might have.

Jed knocked on her door and entered. “Sweet Mary –” he said. “Are you all right? Is everything well? Have you been asleep long, my love?” How boyish he looked like that, his hair askew and his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows. How she would miss him!

“I’m quite well, Jed,” Mary said, the sleep still upon her, the afterimage of vineyards and yellow gold flickering behind her eyes. “Only – must you really go so soon?”

He knelt at her side, took her hands in his. He looked at her directly and spoke very slowly and very gently. “It is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do,” he said. “But you told me I should return to Alexandria. Have you changed your mind?” He kissed her hands, twisting the topaz round to the front.

She was crying now. How she had wanted this last day to be joyous! – and she was spoiling it with her tears. It could not be helped, not when he took her hand like that and looked at her in that way.

“I will come when I can, Jed,” Mary cried, feeling acutely the division of her loyalties, the nephews in her care and the children she wanted with him. Must she always take care of others, then? Must she always wait for her turn?

“I brought you something else, Mary,” Jed said, kissing her lips.

“Where are the boys now?” Mary asked in a whisper, gesturing below.

“They are quite occupied with the digestive system of the American bullfrog,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t think they will bother us for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes, then,” she said, wiping away her tears. “But what else could you possibly bring me? Apples and honey? Gold and myrrh?”

“Mary?” he asked, puzzled. He put his hand to her forehead. She turned away from him, her cheek falling into his palm.

“I’m sorry – I’m not feverish at all – just a fancy, Jed. The memory of a dream.” She looked at the ceiling and then up at him, pulling back from his warm hand. “Aren’t you going to tell me, after all? What you’re going to give me?”

“A covetous woman, I see,” Jed teased.

She kissed him. “I will never stop wanting you,” she promised. “I want—”

“Hush!” he said, pulling back from her and putting his finger to her lips. Her stilled her with a glance, then rose and went to his carpetbag.

“It’s not much,” he admitted. “But before I came here, I had this made.” He handed her a small tintype, his own visage staring sternly out at her. This was not Jed, this stiff, colorless man, and yet it would be rude to turn away his gift. And then, upon second glance, she saw the way his eyebrows were lifted, the light and energy in his face, and she thought it would do very well as a memento.

“Thank you, Jed,” she murmured. “I didn’t think to have one made – this has all happened so quickly – I hardly—”

He laid the photograph in her lap. “I do hope you will have one made and send it to me at your earliest convenience. I would so like to have some image of yours to keep with me until I see you again.”

“Thank you,” she repeated. Then she rose and went to her vanity. “I have something for you, as well,” she said. “I thought to send it to you with the scrimshaw box and the cigars, but it seemed I would be taking a liberty. We were only friends then, and you still had a wife.” She smiled ruefully. “I know, now, that I would not like another woman to send you these, and I suppose I knew back then that I should not give them to you as long as you were married to Eliza. But I kept them, regardless.” She handed him a small, flat parcel tied up with twine. Jed struggled at the knot for several seconds before handing it back to her.

“My nails are ruined,” he said. “Please, will you open it for me?” She steadily turned the package over. She had wrapped it months ago, and hoped they still looked as neat as she had thought them at the time.

“I made these for you after Chancellorsville,” she said. “When I worked at the mill, I tried to always keep some of the cloth I designed. Most of my prints were for women’s clothing, but sometimes – like this – I was asked to design something for men. These were woven, not printed, so the pattern shows on both sides.” She handed the box to him and he found three handkerchiefs: one in striped gray and black, another in hound’s-tooth navy and red, and one in white-and-gray gingham, each neatly hemmed and embroidered _JF_. “They’re very simple,” Mary explained. “And I thought, after Chancellorsville, that even you might appreciate a handkerchief. But then I didn’t dare send them.”

“I wish you had,” Jed said, running his fingers over his initials. “You can hardly imagine what they would have meant to me, that you would go to such trouble on my behalf.”

“It wouldn’t have been right,” Mary said. “But now – now you should have them, Jed. And I will send others, and whatever else you need – whatever else you can think of. Whatever you would wish a wife to send you.” She was crying again and then began to laugh as he passed her one of the hankies. “Not that!” she said between sobs. “Please – no – they’re yours.” She rummaged in her pocket for her own kerchief and dabbed her eyes. How her nose would run, when she cried! What a fright she must look to him!

“I will treasure anything you send me,” Jed said, holding her hands and kissing away her tears. “Please, Mary – do not cry.”

“I can’t help it,” she said, wiping away her tears with her hand. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” He held her close and she nestled against him, heard the jagged rise of his chest. The boys continued their gleeful shouts below.

“Mary,” Jed began. “What you are doing here is the right thing. You must look after your nephews first of all. They are children – _I_ am not.” He pushed her hand back from her forehead; her braids had become lose in her distress and her hair threatened to cover her face. “You are doing the right thing to be with them.” He paused, kissing her temple. “Thank you for your gift,” he said. And then, “I have something else for you, Mary, though along quite different lines.” He reached inside his vest and pulled out an envelope. “This is a copy of the letter I sent my attorney in Baltimore,” he explained, “Telling him that you are to have the entirety of my estate should I predecease you. Regardless of whether you remarry and regardless of whether you have future children. He will write you shortly to be in touch.” He looked at her pointedly, and then drew out of the same envelope a promissory note and handed it to her. “And this is for you, now, for your own use.”

Mary looked over the note. There was his name, there was the name of the bank in Baltimore and there was her name, above a sum that was surely far too large. Jedediah had exceeded himself in his generosity; she must give it back to him, she had no need of his money and must tell him so.

“Jed—” she began. “I cannot take this.”

“Oh, but you must,” he said simply. “For you are my wife and I must care for you.” She opened her mouth to protest and he whispered in her ear. “I would have brought you rubies if I thought you would have them.”

“Are you sure you can spare this?” she asked him, turning the bank note over. “Truly, Jed, this is too much. I told you, I have my own income. I have no need for this excess.”

He caressed the inside of her palms. “Take it,” he ordered. “I have never been so glad to rid myself of my ill-gotten gold.” He laughed. “You didn’t know, did you?” he asked her.

“Know what?”

“That I am a wealthy man, Mary.” He looked away, as if ashamed.

She looked at him in astonishment. “I thought your inheritance was tied up in the estate of your father,” she said.

“Yes, most of my inheritance belongs to the estate until my mother’s death, and is invested in bonds and in shipping, in Brazilian mines and various other interests, besides the plantation. But what I have apart from that, my own share, is enough to make me very comfortable. And I don’t want you to lack for anything while I am gone.”

“I wonder that Eliza should have let you go so easily,” she said, trying not to sound bitter.

“She did not have need of my money,” he answered.

“And I have told you I have no need of your money, either.” Her voice grew heated.

“Maybe you do not need it,” he said, “But still I would very much like you to have it. Please take it, Mary. It is the least I can do, being so far away.” He gripped her hands and his face showed doubt.

“Very well, Jed.” She sighed and shook her head. “But what you have given me here is far more than I shall need, even if you were gone a year.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, kissing her wrist. “I get my next furlough in six months. And I very much hope we shall see each other before then.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips. He was so close to her, so warm and dear to her, but she was mindful of the boys below and listened out for their chatter. Their voices had stopped but now she heard their feet on the stairs, and she drew away from Jed to rise and go to the door.

“Come show me what you have found, boys,” she said to Joe and Mattie. She felt suddenly affectionate towards them again, as if her love for Jed had spilled over and touched them too. There was supper to prepare, and Jed’s bags to pack, and the boys to bundle off to bed before they would be alone again. She felt the days falling back into their former shape, and no longer felt so much alone.


	19. August 7, 1863. Boston. Evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a debt to Middlemarch for the idea of the bath. Go read her excellent 'I see thee better -- In the Dark' for the source of that inspiration.

The steam rose from the large tin bathtub in the corner of Mary’s room as Jed readied himself for his bath. Betty had offered to bathe the boys, and that evening Jed had already carried many tureens of boiling water up and down the stairs to fill the tub several times over. Now it was his turn, and he bathed himself perfunctorily while Mary said her good-nights to Joe and Mattie. He then busied himself with some correspondence before Mary returned. There was Ezra to write to at last; a thank-you to Doctor Harris for the invitation to Harvard; and then Mary’s brother to write to and try to explain, after the fact, how it was that his youngest sister had married a divorced Baltimore doctor. He finished his letters and went downstairs for more hot water, filling up the bath for Mary.

She quietly entered the room, explaining in a whisper that the boys were asleep.

“I’ll just step out and let you bathe,” Jed said quickly, rising and gathering the loose papers on the desk.

“No,” she said. “Please don’t go – we have little enough time together. Stay, and sit next to me, and help me wash my hair.” He blinked at her, overcome by the thought of her seated on the edge of the tub, her naked legs crossed and gleaming, as she combed out her long dark hair like some lost selkie.

Mary turned away from him and motioned for him to unfasten the buttons at the back of her dress. His fingers trembled as he lifted the bodice from her shoulders, helping her out of her skirts and corset until she stood in front of him in just her underclothes. She moved swiftly to remove the remainder of her clothing herself and then turned and faced him, unabashedly naked. “Would you hand me my brush?” she asked him in a soft voice, pointing towards her dresser. She waited for him at the edge of the tub, her nipples dark and pointed, her inner leg obscured by shadow.

She was so beautiful he had to look away, remind himself that she was his wife and no specter. How he longed to bury his face between her breasts, feel their heft in his hands, stroke her ribs and make her gasp! -- How he would miss her when he was back in Virginia and alone in his garret room at Mansion House! -- How he would store up these moments as consolation, as his reward for waiting for her!

“Jed,” she said. “Jed—you don't have to just look.” And then she stepped forward and took his face in her hands and kissed him. Her lips were warm and tasted of honey.

Jed stood there stiffly with his arms at his side, unsure of where to hold her, until she clasped his hands and brought them to her hips. Her skin was extraordinarily soft and fragrant; surely she had no need of a bath, surely the bath could wait? She seemed to think so, for she was pulling down his braces and snaking her hands up under his shirt and tugging it free. Then she set at his trousers and eased them down until he was as naked as she was. “Join me in the bath,” she breathed, her hand on his chest.

“There isn’t room,” he said regretfully.

“Sit behind me,” Mary ordered, entering the water first and sliding up so that she was near the head of the tub. She turned and looked at him then, a coy backwards glance, and it was the curve of her cheek and the lift of her eyelashes that decided it for him. He slid in behind her, stretched his legs out around hers, and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. It was very tight and warm in the bath, and steam still rose from the water. Mary bent her head and then sighed back against him, her spine on his chest. He looked down and saw her breasts, the swell of her stomach, the firm line of her thighs, and he was very happy.

Jed took the bar of soap and rubbed her neck, her collarbone, her arms, then reached for the tin cup on the chair and used it to pour water over her head and shoulders. Mary’s hair was very thick but not as long as he had imagined; he had wanted to ask her about it but had forgotten until now. She explained that she had had to cut it a few years ago, when part of it had caught fire in the kitchen, and she was still waiting for it to grow as long as it had once been – “Though I’ll probably go gray first,” she said regretfully.

“I don’t see any gray,” he said, examining the top of her head. “You’re young still.”

“Sometimes I feel as if this war has made me old,” she mused. “And then there was Gustav’s death before that, and now Caroline’s. I wouldn’t wonder if there are a few gray hairs among the brown. You, on the other hand,” she said, turning to glance up at him, “You look quite distinguished with the gray at your temples. Exactly like a physician and executive officer ought to look.”

“I do?” He rubbed his cheek. “I am older than you are, Mary.”

“But you are not old, not at all,” she said, nestling back against him. “You will be old when I am old.” He worked the soap into her hair until it formed a thick lather. She began to hum to herself as he massaged her scalp, and he felt himself grow hard against her bottom.

“We will grow old together,” he said, “But until then I intend to enjoy my lovely young wife.” She laughed, a low, girlish laugh, and he wanted her so much right then, wanted to fix the both of them in that moment before tomorrow dawned and their separation was upon them once more.

It was intoxicating to sit thus with her, his groin pressed against her under the warm water. At one point she lay her head back on his shoulder and kissed his neck, just where his beard ended, saying “I wish we could do this always,” and “What gentle hands you have, Jed,” and “Have you ever shared a bath like this before? I have not.” He played with her nipple with one hand and with the other reached between her legs, spreading his fingers wide inside her as she bucked back against him and trembled and moaned.

Her confession touched him; he had believed that she had shared any number of tender moments with Gustav, though he tried always to be circumspect in asking about her late husband. As for Eliza – he would never have dared ask Eliza to join him in such an act. Jed thought briefly of a woman he had known in Paris, but even with Marianne he had restrained himself to the more conventional forms of lovemaking. He had never imagined himself wanting to bathe a woman, and now he wanted more of such instances, wanted to see again his legs entwined with hers under the water, his dark hair swarthy against her pale skin. And then he wanted what he knew would come next – their love-making in her bed, the sounds she could not help but make, the many signs of her satisfaction in him and in their bodies. It was agony to have to leave her after so few days together, and yet the agony sharpened his longing to a high pitch so that, suddenly, it was too much to be pressed against her in the warm soapy water, it was too exhilarating to have his fingers inside her and his cock flush against her bottom, when it would be so easy to lift her up and slip under her and inside her, for just a moment – that’s all he wanted, just a moment to feel himself completely surrounded by her, and then he would pull away and stand up and bring her to the bed. But he knew that a moment wouldn’t be enough, and the greater agony would be to pull away.

He remembered how her much her words to him had aroused and inspired him when she had first written to him of her love for him, of that subtle electric fire that joined them when they were together, and he spoke to Mary of what he was feeling so that he would not act upon it.

“When the war is over,” he said, moving his fingers inside her, outside her, letting her arch back against him and turn to clutch at his mouth with hers, “Then we shall find a bath such as this, or larger even, and instead of my hands inside you I will use my cock.” She was panting now and he brushed the hair away from her face with his other hand, whispering in her ear. “You feel how hard I am against you now, but just imagine what it will be like then – what freedom we will have to touch each other, in every way, without restraint – seeking, in fact, to make a child from our union.” He turned her head and kissed her lips, opening her mouth with his tongue. “Do you like to feel a man inside you, Mary?” He hardly knew where these words came from, how he dared to ask her such things. “Or do you prefer my hands, my mouth between your legs?”

“Yes,” she said, kicking wildly against the side of the tub as he found her clitoris. He knew they would have to move to the bed soon; the water, while delightful between their bodies, was too thin and harsh to keep the friction from his hands.

“Yes, what?” he pressed her. “Do you like a cock inside you, or my hands?”

“Both,” she panted. “Oh Jed – I wish – could we, just this once?”

He moved his hands to her wrists and held her tightly. “Just this once and everything would change,” he said. “I want to get you with child, but not now, my dearest. And if we do it just this once, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have done it before.”

“I am tired of waiting,” she said. “Oh, how I long to feel you – to have you inside me – to feel that sweet ease of a man inside me again, to have it be you.” She paused. “Being married suits me. I have missed this closeness with a man, and had not thought I would find it again.”

“There’s more that we can do, Mary,” he said, keeping his voice light and moving to stand, pulling her up with him. He reached for the large towel on the chair, wrapped her in it, then grabbed another to dry her hair. He then turned her around to face him and took the towel from her body so that he could wipe his own. Looking down at her, he noticed that her nipples were taut and the goose bumps had risen on her arms. “Come to bed,” he said.

Jed pulled back the covers and indicated for Mary to lie down on the sheets. Her hair still wrapped in the towel, turbaned and rose-pink from the water, she looked like she had recently risen from the baths of a seraglio. What he was about to do to her, he hoped, would remove her for an instant from her ordinary Boston life, transport her to warmer climes and looser morals. He knelt before her, spreading her legs and reaching up to touch her again. How he had wanted to see her in this way, so open and yielding to his touch, so striking in the contrast between white skin and dark curls, her pubis pink and moist. “Do you know what I want to do to you?” he asked in a low voice. “May I?”

“Yes, Jed,” she said, opening her legs further and sliding slowly towards the edge of the bed. “You may.”

“A French kiss, some call it,” he said. “But you might know it as a German practice.” He bent, then, and began to lick her all over, from her inner thigh to the mound of her pubis, then dipping lower, taking her clitoris in his mouth and suckling gently on it. He felt it swell under his lips as the whole area became warmer, moister, sweeter. Mary’s hands were striking at the mattress, pulling at the sheets and then his hair, and she let out a stifled cry.

“I didn’t know—” she tried to say, rising up on her elbows to look down at him. “I’m sorry, I can’t help myself – I’ll be over before you even start.” He looked up at her and saw a gleam of sweat on her chest, between her breasts. She appeared to be straining, to be reaching for her climax and yet trying to hold it back, hold herself in.

“Let yourself go, Mary,” he said, pulling briefly away from her. “Don’t wait – I want to see you like this, wanting it.” He moved his mouth back to her cunt and began to move his tongue in large, smooth circles around her clitoris. She began to keen – he hushed her – she covered her mouth with her hands and then her body became stiff, striving, seeking out her orgasm. He eased a finger inside her, then another, and felt her lift suddenly off the bed and buck against his face. And then she was coming and panting and calling out to him and to God, loud strong cries that prompted him to lie down upon her, taking her head in his hands and kissing the sounds out of her. “You must be quiet,” he said. “The boys – Betty.”

She turned her face away and continued to cry out, rocking against him, gripping his back and his upper thigh. “I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m always like this with something new. I can’t help but call out.” He held her more tightly and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids.

“You have not had that done to you before, then,” he said, in wonder and with pride. He felt his penis swell again at the thought that he was teaching her something. But she surprised him again, pushing him away and off the bed so that he struggled to get his balance. He thought she was angry until she put her hands on his shoulders and indicated for him to sit on the edge of the mattress. She climbed on top of him and he felt the wonderful open curve of her hips and legs above him, her stomach grazing his penis as she kissed his lips and let him touch her breasts. And then she was off again, kneeling on the floor in front of him as she took his cock in her mouth.

The sensation was exquisite – the heat, the moisture, the pressure of her lips around the head of his penis, her hands on his scrotum and running up his shaft to join her lips. He wondered where she had learned such a thing, but then he noticed her slight hesitations, her small clumsinesses – a scrape of teeth against him, a too-tight clasp of the thumb and forefinger, an uncertain hand behind his balls. So she had not done this before, after all, and yet the idea that this was the first time for her was more arousing than any practiced courtesan’s technique. He let her find her way with his body, exaggerating ever so slightly his responses to her so that she would learn what he liked – her small cat’s-tongue licking his balls, the firm pressure of her hands on his shaft, the soft cup of her lips around his glans – all of these were so very, very good. Looking down at her, he saw more clearly the lines of her hips, the wide round globes of her bottom. He wished they had more time together: how he would love to convince her to let him in from behind, to first begin by working her slowly open with his fingers sweetly oiled – she had enjoyed his finger in that place, before – and then to slowly ease himself in to that tight, narrow aperture, the scandal in the placement rather than in the act of entering her. He imagined she would like to give herself to him in that way, as she clearly had had no shame of any part of her body or anything they had done thus far. The idea excited him further so that, looking down upon her and her glorious body, he began to feel the pressure in his balls that signaled his impending release. He tried to push her away, let her know that he was close to coming so that he would not sully her mouth, but she kept her hands and her mouth where they were and continued to work him steadily into that fine frenzy he had so longed for.

Jed came in two strong spurts; she kept her mouth cupped tightly around him, and worked him ever more slowly until at last even that light sensation was too much to bear and he pushed her hands away as he pulled her up into his lap again. He kissed her mouth and was surprised that he did not mind the musky smell or the grassy taste; she kissed him back just as eagerly, pressing her hips against his groin.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he said breathlessly. She blushed and rested her face against his cheek, her hands around his neck.

“Did you like it?” she asked.

“Very much,” he said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t mind doing that.” He laughed and then tried to lower his voice. There was no use hiding what they were doing, Mary had made so much noise he would wonder if she hadn’t woken the boys.

“Why should it surprise you?” she asked, and then quoted, “Nothing human is alien to me. Terence said it first, and Whitman said as much now.”

“ _Homo sum_ –” he repeated.

“I had thought about it for some time,” she admitted.

His eyes widened in disbelief. “You _had_?” he asked in disbelief. “Since when?” How long had she been thinking of him thus, lusting after him as he had lusted after her?

“Since I first saw you naked,” she said. He pulled her close to him and interlaced his fingers in hers.

“There is so much I want to do to you,” he whispered, “So much I want to do _with_ you. Have you ever been to Europe?”

“No,” she said. “We were planning to go to Germany, to visit Gustav’s family, but then he took ill.” She added, “I still correspond with his sister, in Bavaria.”

“When the war is over, we shall go to Europe,” he said. She laughed. “Germany, if you like, and England and France. We must go to France! I will take you to the Paris Opera, and the Salon de Paris, and a hundred other beautiful places that you deserve to visit.”

“New York would do well enough for me,” she said, laughing. “I have only ever passed through it. But in all seriousness, do you know what place I would like to visit, above all?”

He rolled her over and looked down upon her, pinning her hands to the bed, kissing her forehead and then her cheeks and mouth. “Where?” he asked. “To what distant locale does my does my dear wife desire to travel?”

“Only to Alexandria,” she sighed. “Only there.”


	20. Four letters and five telegrams

August 8, 1863

My dearest Jedediah:

I hope this letter will follow you south or even arrive before you do in Alexandria, so that you will have something of me waiting for you at Mansion House.

Today when I saw you off on your train I wished for nothing more than that I could join you on it, and return with you to the place where we first met and where our love was formed.

I also wished that we had had more time together in Boston. I would have liked you to have met the Reverend Abbott and his wife, and several other friends of mine besides. It is as if you were here and gone in Boston and no one knew of your visit and but me and Betty and the boys, and now I must find a way of explaining to those dear to me that I am now married to a man as yet unknown to them, and I will be gone from here as soon as my sister’s husband returns, granted he is well enough to return home and resume his life with his sons. But I am also fearful of how the boys will respond to my absence, after so many changes in their lives since the war began.

Lest you think I will entirely martyr myself for them, let me assure you that that is not the case; they have a father living and if there is anything that I have learned from Gustav’s death and this war, it is that I must live for myself as well as for others. And right now what I want above all else is to be with you, my dearest, and to work by your side as I did for that one intense, brief year at Mansion House. How I long to wear a nurse’s uniform again, to catch a glimpse of you at the other side of the ward, to ask you for your advice on a patient’s condition, and then to finally, at the end of the day, join you in whatever small quarters we secure for ourselves, and be each other’s comfort in the midst of death and suffering. Can you imagine that? Do you hope for that with the same longing that I do?

I will leave you now, with sadness in my heart and a prayer for your continued safety and wellness near the battle lines.

Your loving wife,

Mary Foster

* * *

 August 12, 1863

Dear Mary:

I received your letter of the 4th of this month telling me of your recent marriage, and I wish to congratulate you upon it. I believe that Caroline would be pleased, as I am, that you have found it possible to love again after Gustav’s death.

I expect that you will want to join Doctor Foster in Virginia as soon as it is feasible, and I regret the situation you have been forced into, in caring for my children when you should be caring for your new husband. But I am also grateful that they have an aunt such as you, and I am aware of the debt that I owe you in coming to be their mother in the absence of both their parents.

It is for this reason, among others, that I am pleased to tell you that I will be released from my imprisonment within the month. Apart from the loss of my hand, which renders me unfit for further field duty, I have fortunately maintained my good health. Say what you like about Confederate prisons, in my own case I have found that officers are treated very well indeed, and I have lacked for nothing in Richmond save a sense of purpose and the chance to pay my respects to Caroline.

When I return, I plan to resume my legal practice in Boston and see to some of my business interests in Manchester and Lowell; as you know, the cotton trade has been interrupted by this war and it will take some time for the mills to return to their former capacity. I look forward to spending my energy in some useful fashion again, as I have tired of games of draughts and chess with other prisoners, and there has been little to read here since they keep the newspapers from us. But the news of my release is accurate; I have received official communications to that effect, and I should be home before October. I will expect you will want to leave for Virginia as soon as possible, and so I urge you in the meantime to settle whatever affairs you still have in Boston before my release.

Please let Joe and Mattie know of my upcoming return; I am anxious to see my boys again and hope they are not too changed by this war and their mother’s death.

In gratitude,

Joseph Barnes

* * *

 16 Aug 1863

My beloved:

Your letter preceded me to Mansion House – how much it cheered me to find it upon my return! ~~It is difficult to be here~~

Many people here were pleased to hear of our marriage and send their regards to you – Nurse Green, of course, but also the matron, the chaplain, Samuel and Aurelia, Doctor Summers and Doctor Hale, and Miss Hastings asked to be remembered to you. Even Miss Furness, the head nurse, is curious about you (though I fear that curiosity may be due to her fear, in part, that she will be supplanted by you when you return). MacLean, the new doctor, and his wife are eager to know you and to include us in their little circle of lettered acquaintances here in Alexandria. His wife hosts salons of a sort and was interested to hear of our mutual admiration for Whitman. I hope you will find a friend in her when you return here.

There is not much more for me to say ~~except that I love~~ except that I love you. My journey here was long but uneventful, the Union uniform a warning to anyone who would attempt to swindle or harass me on the train. If you thought the heat of Boston was terrible, then you must remember the damp inferno that is Alexandria at this time of year. I am accustomed to these Southern summers as I believe you were not, and yet if there is one thing I appreciate about them it is the warm night air on my face, the smell of the honeysuckle and roses and how they invoke the vivid memory, now, of how we made love in such rose-scented rooms in Beacon Hill, stirring my anticipation for such nights in the future when you are back here in Alexandria.

I enclose a bank note for you; please have made for yourself a light dress in a white printed muslin, to wear in these last weeks of Indian summer and early fall. I will think of you in such a dress on nights like this one.

Your husband,

Jedediah

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City

19 August 1863

JED – JOSEPH TO BE RELEASED SOON – ARRIVAL ALEXANDRIA OCT OR NOV LATEST – OH HAPPY DAY – MPF

* * *

August 20, 1863

Dear Mrs. Foster –

I may address you in that fashion now, may I not? As I have never been married, I wonder what it is like to take one’s husband name and to have to accustom oneself to a new appellation. Is it strange to introduce yourself as such? -- though Phinney and Foster do sound so much alike. I wonder why you always went as Nurse Phinney at Mansion House, and not as Nurse von Olnhausen. Was it some German custom to retain your name even as you gained a title? Shall you no longer be a baroness, now that you are married again?

Forgive me such superficial questions; I am avoiding the real questions I wish to ask you. Are you happy to be married again? How did your family take the news? When shall we see you again at Mansion House? Doctor Foster is proud as a cock to have married you; you should see how he mentions you at every opportunity. “My wife,” he says, and “Mrs. Foster,” and “Nurse Mary,” as if we could forget that it was you he speaks of. And it seems that there is to be another wedding among those of us at Mansion House – not mine, I assure you – as Nurse Hastings has at last agreed to marry Doctor Hale. They are to be wed in a few weeks, and ~~Hen~~ the chaplain will perform the ceremony.

As for myself, what else can I write to you except that I now know, without a doubt, that it is Henry Hopkins that I love, and no other? I have not heard from my old beau Frank in months and do not care to hear from him again (although I hope he is well, wherever he may be). I admire the chaplain’s many kindnesses, his wisdom and his humility; I find him pleasing in all ways, and I am not afraid to admit to myself or to you that I love him. I notice that he often lingers in the Confederate ward when I am with the boys; I do not know if that is because he pities them for being both wounded and imprisoned, or if it is (as I hope) that he also finds my company pleasing. I do not speak much with him, for we are both occupied with our work, and many times the doctors call me to assist at some surgery for Union soldiers and I have no time to tarry. But sometimes in the evenings, when a man is very ill and his time is near, I will join the chaplain in a hymn and I notice how well our voices twine together, how his low baritone grounds and elevates my higher voice, and it seems to me that he sings with greater earnestness when he sings with me.

Doctor Foster tells me that you will join him in Alexandria when you are able. I hope that that is soon, for I still long for a woman friend in whom I can confide and ask advice. You will continue to write in the meantime, I hope. I was pleased that you wrote to tell me of your marriage and hope that we will continue to be friends, though you are far away.

In peace,

Emma Green

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston

21 August 1863

MARY – WHAT JOY – WILL SECURE HOUSE AND SERVANTS – AWAIT EAGERLY FURTHER NEWS – YOUR JED

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City

24 August 1863

JED – THIS NIGHT I AM HAPPY – WHAT CAN THE FUTURE BRING ME MORE THAN I HAVE? – MARY

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Washington City to Boston

27 August 1863

MARY – BE IT AS IF I WERE WITH YOU – BE NOT TOO CERTAIN BUT I AM NOW WITH YOU - JED

* * *

Western Union Telegraph Company  
Boston to Washington City

1 September 1863

JED – OCT 1 – ALEXANDRIA – MEET STEAMBOAT– WE TWO HAVE CIRCLED AND CIRCLED TILL WE HAVE ARRIVED HOME AGAIN– MPF

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Come slowly-- Eden!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446929) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)
  * [I can wade Grief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504310) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch)




End file.
